Champagne, Maybe

I am drunk and they know. I lift my head. A shard of glass sticks out from low in my stomach, catches the lamppost light. It’s a striking image. I should write a song about it.

Give me something clear to inflate my veins. I want to feel them burn, bubbles racing through them, my heart floating past on a river of fizz.

I am not the only one lying at the side of the road. Less than five meters away, surrounded by ambulance men, by wailing relatives, lies a stranger. The broken husk of my car is being loaded onto a lorry. Glass falls from the windscreen as the car is lowered down, I can hear it.

The stink of rotten grapes floats up from my lap where the champagne bottle struck. Cava, more like. I can’t tell the difference. So long as it’s fizzy and white.

Perhaps they’ll get round to examining me later.

I imagine James visiting me in prison, still scarred but beautiful. Made up with borrowed make up, stylish as prison sweats allow. I’m entertaining my cell mate, the girls in the canteen, the guards on their break. Prostitutes and murderesses come to watch me sing, watch as I lean into the bars, swaying just a little, agony clear on my face. Finally got something to sing about.

I let my head drop back.

The stranger is being loaded into an ambulance. I want to see whether or not the body is covered up but my stomach is too painful. Glass. I can feel wetness trickling between my legs, warm now.

Champagne, maybe.