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Fifty-eight
Conner
February
She’s been gone for sixteen weeks.
That’s how I measure time now. Every morning, I watch the sun come up and count another day without her.
It sucks.
Every goddamned day.
But I’m trying.
I’m eating.
I’m sleeping. At least what passes for sleep where my fucked-up brain is concerned.
I’m running with Cap’n every morning. I even let him talk me into volunteering at the library, a few days a week.
I wear the stupid watch Tess bought me and let it tell me where to go and what to do.
It’s shitty and fucked-up and I hate everything and everyone.
But I’m doing it.
No booze.
No women.
No blood.
The first and third because I’ve finally accepted that they hurt more than they help.
The second because I can’t.
I don’t want to.
The fact that my dick seems to be broken, notwithstanding, I’m doing okay. I’m solid.
I work on cars.
I go to Benny’s with Tess.
I work my shifts at the bar and pretend that the thought of touching another woman doesn’t make my skin crawl.
I volunteer at the library and somehow manage to walk through its doors a few times a week without burning the place to the ground.
But I did set my futon on fire.
I hauled it out to the alley behind the garage, the same day I sold my Cuda.
Tore a page out of Leg’s playbook.
Threw it in the dumpster and torched it.
Drank a beer and watched it burn.