Even as I screamed at you that you were getting on my last nerve, I had an inkling that it was a big fat lie. Did I even have a last nerve? Perhaps it vanished along with my last fuck, around the time that we lost our home due to your inability to pick the fastest horse.
I check my handbag first, just in case. I tend to carry a lot in this, from snacks to first aid kits, and it would make sense that my last nerve would be in there. I remember pulling it away the time I found you looking for the credit card, that one in my name only. Nope, not in here.
I look in my car’s glovebox, the one that swings open if I brake too hard, which is often as the brakes are indecisive and touchy. Sound familiar? No last nerve here, but I do find my Zoloft prescription. This is tucked into my handbag (first aid section).
You’re asleep on the couch. It’s barely noon and you’re snoring, one hand on your belly and the other in a bag of cheese Doritos. You’ve obviously managed to get yourself a beer since I refused, and the (probably not quite) empty can lies on the carpet. There’s a pale brown stain, in the shape of a maple leaf, a stain that’s taken months and many (not quite) empty cans to create.
I stamp on the can. It crumples under my sneaker, the sound satisfying but not as much as the way it wakes you up. You snort, drop the Doritos, look around, dumb and confused. I’m smiling down at the maple leaf stain, because that’s where I left it. My last nerve. I pick up my handbag and it feels lighter already.
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