Remembering

I hope he remembers the cigarettes.

I think, hope, it’ll make the anxiety go away. It’ll wash away her face and voice; it’ll make all the good times we spent together seem terrible, like they really were; it’ll stop me from chewing on the sleeve of my sweater.

Because I can’t forget what she said- “I hope you fucking die,”- and I can’t bear to recognise the fact that all the tears were my fault.

I hope he brings the cigarettes and a little more if that doesn’t work.

But then, he’s knocking on the door with no cigarettes and instead, confidence in the form of liquor in a bottle. But I don’t care, I drink it and cry like I would anyway. And he doesn’t care, reminding me that this is what I’ve given her up for.

If I remembered her, he really should have remembered the cigarettes.