Every normal person I know wrinkles their nose at the stench of stale beer. It's an odor reminiscent of alleyways, college parties, and of general squalor.
When that scent reaches my nose, I welcome it. Rather than turn away and find something else to sniff, I breathe it in and I cautiously think of him. No flood of memories, here, for I built a dam to ensure that. I can't have an uncontrolled onslaught of memories of you, as that is far too dangerous.
It would be far easier if you hadn't shown any semblance of owning a heart or conscience. There's just enough good in you that someone can potentially "overlook" the bad. My inherent disposition to excuse inexcusable behavior in exchange for a harmonious relationship is far from under control, so while I'm grappling with that issue, I've found it necessary to build certain defenses. Which include keeping a certain set of memories readily available for when the need arises to chide my insensible heart. But usually one word reminders do the trick. Like alcoholic. Or asshole.
Still, even with these defenses in place, the temptation to bypass them is a strong one. I remember twirling with you, laughing as our poor coordination brought us to the ground, knocking over our glasses and pausing our dance to sop up the mess. When I reached for my pile of clothes on the floor in the morning, I could smell what we failed to clean up. It didn't seem too pressing at the time, as those were not our first glasses of the night, and you had started much earlier than I. As a result, your room always smelled faintly of old booze, though it didn't just come from the site of our spill. I wondered how many drinks had found their way to the ground during your nights alone, but didn't think about the implications of such behavior, and instead joined you with another bottle that I would think eventually led to our demise, when really it was when you stopped me and said hello.
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