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There are three of you. No, wait… one. Two. Many. I don’t know, any more. What was in that last drink? Doesn’t matter. I won’t remember.

I’m home. How did that happen? Did I get a taxi, or a bus?

Never mind. This would be a good time to write that letter, I think. Full of recrimination and blame. It wasn’t my fault. It was all you. Doesn’t matter that you weren’t there; everyone needs a scapegoat. Easier to write it now, when I won’t remember, when I can deny responsibility.

Or maybe it wasn’t your fault. Maybe it was her. Maybe she made you do it; I mean, you wouldn’t have, if it wasn’t for her, right?

I didn’t do anything wrong.

Hiccups are stupid. Pointless. I mean, why? What purpose do they serve? They’re just stopping me getting the stamp straight on the envelope.

Bah. The post box is too far away, anyway. I’ll post it in the morning.

I really fancy some chips.

© Kari Fay

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