A New Arrangement

He had already walked six miles from the village when he lost his footing on an iced-covered rock and fell backwards, shattering the rum bottle he was safely carrying in his back pocket. Six miles was too far to go back, but a two day train ride without liquor would be unbearable. The worst part: he was still sober enough to remember why he was leaving. Conor picked the glass out of his already torn blue jeans and whipped the pieces onto the saturated dirt. That's what I get for trying to ration my booze. He turned around, his head hanging lower than before, and plunged into the city. Light was threatening the anonymous darkness as he wandered down deserted city blocks, tasting the liquor's sweet aroma as it wafted behind him. The only sound was distant laughter from last night's bar crowd finally finding refuge from their late night indulgence. Without rum he would be forced to think of Amy. Amy and her blue dress. Amy and her curly, brown hair. Amy and her lipstick. Red lipstick. She was the girl of his dreams but he couldn't handle the fact he had caught her. Their love only flourished from a distance and he was determined to get away and reclaim the chest-tightening longing he once had for her. Of course, she didn't understand his transient nature and he wished he felt guiltier for leading her to believe that he was steady. The only thing she could count on, was him leaving. He strolled up to the blinking teller in the high-ceilinged station, "one ticket to San Francisco please."