I know it because of the way his eyes have already turned into shards of glass and are looking straight through me to the wall on the other side or at whoever is standing behind me, as if I’m invisible. Maybe I am. He is looking at me but can’t see me. It wasn’t even midnight yet when he started rambling about how nothing really matters and I caught him looking at crystal clear photos of his hottest ex on Facebook shortly thereafter. He claimed they were blurry. He isn’t an angry drunk. He is madly in love with me when he’s hammered. He tells me he thinks I’m pretty and sometimes puts his arm around me in public. That’s another tell-tale sign. He graciously thanked me for cooking him dinner this evening. I made lasagna. It really didn’t turn out well, but he liked it. Good thing he ate something or else he’d be yakking in the sink by now, I thought. “You’re drunk.” I said. “I’ll show you drunk”, he threatened. But I wasn’t scared. That’s the problem. I was bored. Ah, here we go. His speech is beginning to slur now, but not in the the cute-blonde-twenty-two-year-old-affluent-white-girl-with-doey-eyes way. More in the depressing-forty-five-year-old-man-who-still-has-roommates-and-loathes-himself way. If his license weren’t already suspended from his two previous DUIs, he might try to drive tonight. At least I don’t have to worry about that. Back at his place, the fridge is stocked with IPAs and there are at least two not-so-empty bottles of Johnnie Walker Black under the bed. But he doesn’t know I know about those. Mostly, I can tell he’s drunk again because he forgot why he was so mad at me. I’ll still stay the night with him though. He’ll remember in the morning.

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