The Blame Game

What do you do when someone grips your hand, stares you down like they know you more than you know yourself, and puts their heart on the line, once again—seven years, again and again—and you call don’t feel the same way? Me, I like to blame it on the bottle of champagne. But you could blame a weird childhood. That works, too. Also heartbreak—that sounds consistent with just about any other story these days—or the way you feel when you’re trying to go to sleep at night. You can blame all the movies you ever watched, the songs you sang, the books you read (The Way Way We Were, The Weight, The Things They Carried). Try disillusionment and, it might work, some sort of postmodern society full of crushed expectations. Blame high school and college, the drug problems along the road and the way you lost your virginity and how it went all wrong. Fatalism and something along the lines of Hamlet. The reason you never drink Jack Daniels or your dry contact lens. Your eyes can fill up with tears, and that silence will do the trick. But if you’re at a loss for words, just blame the bottle of champagne.

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