Like clockwork, you procure your own flask, swap, and both take a long pull. You smile, the familiar burn of alcohol on your tongue — Templeton Rye — the same exact thing that’s in your flask. The same thing you’ve drunk ever since that first night together so long ago. They smile that big, wide grin that melts your heart to pieces even now. You couldn’t leave if you tried.
“Long time no see”
“That’s all you’ve got to say”
You re-exchange flasks, noticing yours is quite a bit weightier.
“You have plans for the evening?” you ask.
“If I had any, do you think I’d be here?”
You smile, falling right back into the same old comedic rhythms. But there is something you need to know. Something pressing. “So you’re married?”
“Was”
“Was?”
“Was”
“Divorced?”
“Dead”
“I’m sorry”
“Don’t be”
You offer your flask as a sign of condolence. It is greedily accepted.
“It was me”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t cancer or some tragic accident, it was murder, and it was me”
The moonlight reflects off of that manic smile, the one you thought was hot as hell just a minute ago. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Can this be true? Why? How? Do you even care? You’ve trusted them with everything before, but this feels different, somehow.
Homecoming of Horrors 