George came by about the time I was eating breakfast. A strawberry Poptart and a glass of milk.
"What is in the flask?" I asked him as he kept imbibing.
"Rum," George said with a big toothy grin. "Want some?"
It was the closest I had come to drinking in the past few years. In my mind I could feel the warmness of the alcohol coursing through my veins. The numbness in my hands and the urge to sleep away the day. Alcohol is the great escape.
George was also the bringer of mixed news. Mixed in that I didn't know what to make of it.
"That ex-girlfriend of yours has moved to Atlanta to live with her daughter," George told me. "Ferret told me this morning."
A pang of longing for Rosa shot out through my heart. I miss her much of the time. Can't cry over spilt milk, though.