Wednesday, May 26, 2010

June's Bar

I don’t think I've ever really knew how much we loved each other. Everything I loved about June W. was everything I lacked: family, stability, credit, home, friends and pets. I just watched “Crazy Heart” with Jeff “The Dude” Bridges and saw myself in every scene. Especially when he did a face-plant on the bed just before telling his friend he’s done drinking.

I wish I could say that I’m done drinking after watching that movie, but I am writing this drunk.

June did everything for me. She made me so happy. The only thing that she didn’t do was the only thing she couldn’t do: give me a child. (That is another story.)

But I’ve learned something about her being away from her. She really missed her drinking partner. As much as she tried to handle the end of our marriage with me trying desperately to stay sober, she could not be happy with a sober husband. She needed someone who could drink with her.

The more we’d learned about each other, the less honest we’d become. We both created our own set of denial: mine not accepting being an alcoholic and her’s not being married to one. She became the ultimate denial supporter.

She didn’t want to admit that she married an alcoholic, even though she saw all of the signs beforehand. She wanted to present a stable drinker to her Wisconsin heavy drinking family. It’s like she almost had something to prove. She had finally met a man that can hold a job and drink at the same time.

Once it became one or the other, she no longer was interested in me. June had fallen out of love. Her best friend could no longer drink with her.

So, what did she do? She divorced me and built a bar, in the living room (well, just off it.)

I have never loved anyone in my life more than her, June. And I can’t get over her. I told her that I will always change. I changed into a sober man. She became disinterested. I turned to the bottle. I really didn’t know where else to go. I still don’t.

Her family saw how crazy we were for each other. I fell in love with them; they’re good people. I don’t have much in the way of family. I miss family. I really don’t have any now.

And I loved June like no other man has loved a woman. When we were together, it was like glue. Just being in the same bed made me stroke her legs with mine, rub her aching muscles, pop in her dislocated spinal vertebrae. June was the kind of woman that would take time in a morning shower for a personal scrub down, no matter what her schedule.
She liked the way I took care of things in the morning, like setting the Boss for random jazz music as an alarm clock, making the coffee, feeding the cats and clearing their box; that simple stuff. I always made sure she had a good start for the day.
She loved when I sang to her in Spanish, barely naked.

I miss doing that.

We’re all getting older. That kind of fun probably wont ever happen for us.

But, she meant a change for us. At that time, we needed it. We were cheaters.

Being married meant we’d bean done with cheating, or so we thought.

This is not the kind of relationship you want to describe to your family.

This is the kind of bar that her family dreamed of, in-house, laminate, sweet lighting, European in nature, but Wisconsin in root. Thankfully she created more of the former than the latter.

It was supposed to be a place that you can just come in, play dice, talk local, bitch about work, that type of vent. That’s all she wanted. Nothing worse.

Photos were collected, and posted. She’d married a photographer, yet she never posted photos of him. She only posted photos of friends that were more drunk than her. I noticed that. It was tasteful, as tasteful as party can be. But, thought was there.

June W. is not the ultimate party girl. She’s holding out; for someone. Not me, that’s for sure. We’ve done that dance.

I love June. I will always love her. I can tell you in detail why I will always love June, but that is not important to her nor I, nor anyone else. I just know that I must let that love lie and die. If you’re a drunk, you’d know why.

Sincerely Yours,

-- Without Wax