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May 18, 2004
He went to work today with no goodbye. He came back, found me laying in bed, asked me if I wanted to talk about last night. I said "Talk about what? I don't remember anything." He asks if I remember the conversation we had when we got home. "Sort of."

All of a sudden, the carpet is wet with thrown beers and glasses. His face is wrought with need – need for answers, for reassurance, for honesty most of all. But I can't tell the truth from spilled liquor.

He packs, walks out the door. I stare at it for hours.