61_Tremors of truth

AVA

I sat on the worn faux-leather couch in my studio apartment, knees drawn to my chest, staring at the bottle of white wine perched on the glass coffee table. The condensation pooled beneath it like tears, dripping onto the stack of unpaid bills and unopened letters I hadn’t bothered to clear away.

My trembling fingers hovered near the stem of the wine glass. I had poured it an hour ago, convinced it would numb the guilt gnawing at my insides like feral rats. But every ...