A Right Mess

She comes over with a bottle of wine, some blend of reds, and I'm a little bit annoyed with myself because I know I'm about to drink half of it even though red wine gives me headaches, but she doesn't know that and I don't want to be rude, and anyway I might end up liking it, but I guess that's just what I need, a new red wine to like so I drink it and get more headaches. So I get out two glasses only they're covered in spots, so I get two more, and two more, until I can't hide that I'm picking up and putting down every wine glass in the house, even the white ones, even the champagne flutes, and I know they're only water spots but there's still something that looks so dirty about it, and I don't want her to think I'm unclean, to think that she's in a filthy house, that I don't take care of myself, that I don't so things like knowingly consume things that make me feel ill. She's forgotten the key so I scrounge around for one, it's in the back of the drawer filled with cooking and bar odds and ends and it looks a right mess and I stand at such an angle where I hope I'm covering it up, that she can't see inside the drawer, and I'm probably worrying too much about whether or not she cares about the littlest things that I'm sure she doesn't give any thought to at all, but I can't help myself, this is how the gears start spinning when she's around, it's like they're spinning sideways, like everything's connected and disjointed and independent of each other yet working in some fashion altogether and it's maddening. The wine is delicious and I don't even care about the oncoming headache, don't care that we'll look like purple-mouthed winos, don't care that I might slip up finally and let the truth come out, not like that would be the worst thing in the world, it might even be a weight off my shoulders and besides there's always the reliable excuse of drink. Would she believe me? Would she wait to listen to all that? Would she run? Would she sit quietly beside me and ask me to repeat myself? Could I say the same words twice? If asked I think I could do just about anything but we don't get anywhere near that far before she knocks her glass over and the nearly-full contents spill out onto the oriental rug my grandmother left me, the forty-five thousand dollar rug that's costs I don't even know how much to clean, and she says she's sorry and she's sorry and she's so sorry and where are the paper towels and she can clean it up and it's sorry and it's all her fault and she's so embarrassed but I don't say anything, my head hurts too much. I look at the dark red splotch turning the grey even greyer and I think how awfully much it looks like Australia, or at least the Australia in my head, and I say this to her to lighten the mood, I want her to know I'm not angry, that my only thought of the stain on my rug is about geography, but when I tell her she stops moving, cleaning, breathing, and looks at me. She looks at me with such confusion and I can tell she doesn't know why she came here at all. She leaves. There is half a bottle of wine left. I will have to drink it.