The Honeymoon
674 Words
Like every decision I’ve ever made, Mickey’s and my relationship was impulsive and without thought. My impulsiveness is the reason my encounters are usually intense and dramatic, never-ending well. Mickey and I met blindly. We had a few conversations on social media through Frankie’s f*******: page, then decided to take Frankie's advice to meet at a local bar.
Unlike Smiley and Frankie, Mickey was short with a small build. His smile was crooked and silly. His eyes were ocean blue, extensive, and transparent, showing a lot of emotion and pain. At first, Mickey came off as somewhat cocky, which brought out my sarcasm and wittiness. I liked the challenge, and he liked my effort to rebuttal his distasteful criticizing jokes. As the night went on and the more alcohol I drank, the more our ripostes turned into flirting. Mickey had a certain charm about him that made him irresistible. To my surprise, Mickey was a gentleman. After the bar, I dropped him off at his house. He didn’t invite me in to try to sleep with me, which was impressive. He kissed my hand before leaving the car, leaving me feeling like I was in love!!
Like most of my relationships, Mickey and I were inseparable from day one. About a week after seeing him, he and his brother got into an argument late one night. I told him he could come to stay at my apartment if he needed to, but apparently, I needed to be more straightforward about his stay time. I was thinking of a day or two for him and his brother to cool off. When I got to his house to pick him up, he had all his belongings packed and ready to be put in my car. I was obviously perplexed because we had just met, but I let it happen anyway; because I never thought of consequences or cared if there were any. I was always a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl, and if s**t went sideways (which it usually did), I’d worry about it and clean it up then.
The first week or two of living with Mickey was hazy. If I wasn’t at work, Mickey and I were out driving around the streets of Chicago in the middle of winter, getting drunk as f**k. This was the beginning of my alcoholism. Those nights felt fairy-tale-like. They were passionate and childlike. We went dancing; we had s*x in public places; we laughed a lot! We did everything I needed Gardo to do with me for ten years! It was refreshing and euphoric. I felt like a teenager while forgetting that I had teenagers at home. My relationship with my kids was slowly deteriorating, and I was being blinded by freedom and alcohol.
Three weeks had gone by, and the rent was about to be due; my car payment and insurance were past due, and I had just spent most of my money living like I was a teenager. I still wanted to be responsible, and I still cared about fixing my life for my kids and myself. I still had some hope of being what I claimed I would be when I left Gardo and walked out of our white picket-fenced house and almost perfect life. But I knew the only way to achieve that would be to let go of everything that made me feel alive. Mainly Mickey and alcohol.
Even though our nights and parts of our days were spent in the bars acting like we didn’t have a responsibility, I still had my bartending job. I would come home from work, my house would be clean and most of the time there was a home-cooked meal prepared, but most importantly, he was someone there with my boys, which was a big relief. Leaving three teenage boys home alone to fend for themselves every evening and expecting them not to get in trouble was insanity. In those aspects, having Mickey around was great. Nonetheless, none of those things were helping me pay the damn bills.
- Writer
