Luke opened up another bottle of vodka, almost falling over but holding on to the door of the cabinet for support. He didn’t know how drunk he was, but was able to tell he was on his second, because when he was downing the first one all he could remember was the way your face looked and the way your clothes smelled and he could remember how shitty he felt when he saw you holding another man’s hand. He knew it was his second because on his first one he was clumsily making his way into his house, shoving chairs out of the way and wiping the tears from his eyes and hearing his own voice repeating “I can’t handle it, I can’t handle it” to himself. On his first one he was erratic, feeling mad yet crying, mad because be was crying, and it became another reason to hate himself. On his first one, he had no control. Luke knew this was his second one because after he finished the first one, he was sitting on his kitchen floor, the sun’s setting color of orange and pink piercing through the spaces between the slats of the blinds on the window above his sink, counting their shadows and adding them up to 36, which was even worse because it was how many in minutes (out of the 40 that made up a class period) it took for him to gain the courage to ask you what your name was after staring at the back of your head and wondering who you were on the first day of school. He knew it was his second one because out of all the times he had gotten his heart broken, you were the only person that made him need a second bottle.