Sunday Night

I sat on my couch—loveseat, really—criss-crossed legs. My hair pushed to one side, a tangled, waterfall mess. The window was open, desert winters feeling more like autumn. Whiskey warmed my stomach, numbed my tongue. Thoughts were scattered everywhere—hidden in my oversized flannel shirt, sprawled across the dull carpet, stored on shelves behind unread books. I was nervous. I wondered when you would come home.