The Bottle

Its just a bottle. It is cold and smooth and glass. It is green with the residue of glue where the label has been peeled off. The cap is still tightly on top. He wants to open it but does not. He picks at the glue like he picked at the label. Soon the glue will be gone and the cap will taunt him.

“Open me.” “Fuck you.” “Please.” “Fuck you.”

He wants to open the bottle. The bottle wants to be opened. What is the problem. Just open the damned bottle. He can not.

He is weak but he is not that weak. The bottle stares at him; he stares at the bottle.

“Please.” “FUCK YOU ,” he screams and hurls the bottle across the room. It catches the large chrome handle on the old Frigidaire and bursts, spraying the kitchen with froth. Glass skitters across the floor. Yellowish foam slithers down the refrigerator and becomes rivulets which become streams which leap off the bottom of the door landing on the freezer door and crawl towards the floor.

“Fuck you,” he mutters without much enthusiasm. “Fuck you.”

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