Booze

He left the cemetery disoriented, his eyes red, and his hands numb from the cold. A head-ache that had started in the plane was now a strong, constant banging inside his head. There was no one in the graveyard as he left, even the crows had disappeared. He decided to take a slow walk on a nearby road to clear his head. Tomorrow morning his students would be expecting him back; he had to return. Besides, staying in Manhattan where he would be constantly reminded of her would do him no good. He had to get back to his life, to Harvard. He had to work on his dissertation and finally publish his writings.
By the time he reached an almost empty bar, he had walked 10 blocks. Tired, he ordered a whiskey and settled himself on a stool, pulling out his wallet. He was there for hours, listening to strangers next to him who were deep in conversation. He listened to country songs that played over and over again on an old radio. He couldn’t remember why he never had that coffee with her before she left for New York. He couldn’t remember why he had stopped emailing her, why he pushed her away. Was it because he was afraid he would get attached? Was it because he had feelings that were different and new, ones he couldn’t figure out? Or was it because he knew she was emotional and dependent and that if he would let her, she would get too close, too involved in his life outside the Harvard walls?
The thoughts that ran in his mind became too convoluted, complicated and intangible. The alcohol wasn’t allowing him to think straight, to figure out what it was that he felt for her all those years, and whether his feelings were strong enough to be called love.
He finished his last glass and finally got up, almost tripping over a chair; he was too drunk and dizzy from the booze. He had forgotten her, had forgotten why he was in a dirty city that sickened him. And he walked out of the bar, drunk, disoriented, barely able to keep himself together. It was still snowing and he desperately wished to be back in Boston.

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