This is in NO ORDER AT ALL. So if it seems that some parts do go in order, it's a lie. This is just the order I got the words in - the numbers were for personal reference more than anything. Most fragments are intentional, but I used Word to correct capitalization in this - I'd originally written it entirely lowercase - so if there are some random errors, please point them out. I'm aware that there are some shaky parts.

Eventually, I'm going to do another one of these, with the same characters - they've changed a little (gone through a lot of sketching, since at this point I didn't feel that they were very strong) since I wrote this - but for now I'm too lazy to pick out enough words. The words are prompts, not titles, so if they don't fit perfectly, it's because it only made sense in my head. Olivia (the narrator) is the character from First Drink.

If it seems that certain parts are inconsistent, it's either because I forgot what my characters were like or they are from different time periods.

If you only read part of it, please just tell me which sections and your opinion. Critique is appreciated but please try to avoid too much unnecessary criticism of this one.

One (brighter)

“I fucking hate sunlight,” she tells me one morning, a soft, whiny statement and her face is buried in a pillow except for one eye that watches me to see if my intentions are to extinguish the sun (which of course they are but this feat is not in my power so I settle for pulling the dark curtains closed).

Two (leather)

I remember that once she decided she was going to be a vegetarian before remembering that she hates vegetarians with all of her heart. I remember that she had a leather wallet for as long as we were in high school purely to spite her mother. I remember that she had me for almost as long during high school and I happened to spite her mother.

Three (all)

the children are with us on the couch, each in a lap so that the entire family is sitting on this sort of oversized loveseat watching an old horror movie that doesn’t even scare the littlest, doesn’t even scare me, because it’s just that bad.

Four (some)

When we were married, both of my grandmothers and several aunts and uncles neglected to show up even though I’d personally dropped by with invitations for them. Anabel’s mother came, the only real family she had, and I could see how much it meant to her that her mother – who had always, always disapproved of every choice Anabel made – was there, teary-eyed and very sweet to me.

Five (fry)

She is a good cook, and always has been. She lets me sit on the counter and ramble about how Lucy wants to visit and meet my children. I know it bothers her, but she tells me to make the arrangements and that she’ll be there with me if I want her to be.

“Does that mean that you don’t trust me, love?” I open a cabinet near my head, trying to get out the stuff to bread chicken and accidentally throwing the basket of seasonings on the floor. She laughs, tells me I’m a mess, and kisses my forehead gently.

Six (man)

She’s crying, making it difficult for me to deal with everything. She very rarely cries around me, and when she does it’s usually about some little thing so that she doesn’t have to face real problems, so I know that this time I’ve really fucked up.

Seven (feline)

“Mommy, can we get one?” the littlest is pouting at me, and I am pouting at Anabel, and before I know it, we are walking away with a small black kitten.

The littlest and I secretly hi-five.

Eight (fifteen)

We got together when we were teenagers, and sometimes it just seems so strange to me that we’ve lasted this long. It seems even stranger that I’m still happy.

Nine (sail)

She can’t swim. I can, very well, and I love the water. Lucy can swim well too, and when she offers to take me sailing, it’s hard to not float. I tell her I’ll let her know, and beg Anabel.

“I’ve never been sailing, baby.” I don’t point out that this is something I’ll never be able to do with her. I don’t need to remind her.

She sighs. “Goddammit Olivia, this is so hard for me and I really don’t want to be bitchy about it.”

“Bella, I’ll give you complete details. I know you have no reason to trust me, but baby…”

“Fine.”

Ten (circulate)

we’re teenagers, trying desperately to keep things secret, but rumors get started, “friends” threaten to tell parents, teachers find out and get concerned, and I fall apart in her arms every once in a while because it’s hard for me even though by now my mother knows and is fine with it.

Eleven (dye)

When I meet her, her hair is black with the slightest red tint, and ten years later, it is a dark auburn that I think looks lovely on her but she complains about endlessly.

Twelve (closer)

Our first kiss. Her lips only lightly touch mine, uninvited but welcome all the same. She pulls back quickly, blushing, and I blink at her.

Within a month I’d let her do anything she wanted with me.

Thirteen (luscious)

I am thinking with my lips. All thought, all normal functions, is pushed aside so that all concentration is within this kiss. And her hands on my thighs. And her hips pressing against mine. And her chest pressing against mine as well. And her heartbeat or my heartbeat or perhaps my imagination and her hands on my thighs and moving slowly, curiously, and her hips and her chest and any part of her body pressing against mine and her heartbeat, my heartbeat, our heartbeat growing in speed.

Fourteen (maintain)

Kids are in bed, dinner is put away, dishes are washed, living room is picked up, and a happy couple is sitting on the couch watching re-runs and discussing politics. I love my life.

Fifteen (enigmatic)

She wears dark clothing, she is a grade ahead of me, and she doesn’t talk much but when she does it’s always incredibly interesting. Do I need to explain further?

Sixteen (covet)

Anabel is mad at me, and it is understandable. She puts my health above her feelings, however, and makes sure that I’m okay before yelling at me.

Seventeen (boxes)

Her eyes are glowing brightly, and she is spinning me around in a sort of very fast waltz to the 90’s pop playing over my small boom box. “I’m so excited,” she tells me, for the millionth time. “This is so exciting.” my living room is filled with boxes and my other rooms are filled with nothing, and I’m excited too. Excited and very, very scared. I squeak as she pushes me up against the divider between my kitchen and living room and kisses me, and she giggles. I’ve never really seen her in such a good mood.

Eighteen (Frisbee)

The children are playing in the yard and we are sitting on the porch, sharing a corona and playing a tinny mainstream radio station quietly. Somehow we have become a perfect suburban family.

Nineteen (pray)

When my grandmother finds out about us, she drives six hours to visit my family and takes Anabel and me to church three times in one day. We make out in the bathroom while we’re waiting on lunch.

Twenty (irrupt)

I lean on her sleepily, hating my mother for forcing me to baby-sit. And for having such bad timing when dropping the news.

Twenty-one (terror)

I have never liked horror movies, and she knows it, but she makes me watch them anyway and then cuddles me when I can’t sleep because of them.

Twenty-two (area)

Suburbia. It is almost a swear word to us, or was, and here we are cozy in our little ticky-tacky house.

Twenty-three (half)

The oldest is asleep on the couch when I walk into the living room, and he wakes up, blinking at me. He asks me what’s wrong and lets me pretend not to hear him.

Twenty-four (adoration)

The first time, she is confidence and security and a little bit of concern, and I am fear and excitement and a lot of love. Later she will tell me she was terrified and that I didn’t seem to be, and I will not believe her and claim the opposite. She is so perfect and gentle but somehow commanding and she is everything I ever wanted, and I would and will do anything she asks of me.

Twenty-five (standard)

When I find out she’s human, I cry.

Twenty-six (preliminary)

One day, she’s brushing my hair with her fingers, sitting on the couch while I am on the floor, and her hand gently slides along my collarbone. I try to ignore it but by the end of the night I’ve confessed everything I never wanted to confess to her and it hasn’t turned out as horribly as I thought it would’ve.

Twenty-seven (apple)

“You want something to eat?” she asks me, tossing me an apple without waiting for an answer. I don’t catch it and instead blink at it. She laughs lightly.

Twenty-eight (only)

“Am I your first?” she asks me, cuddling me into herself. I nod, quietly saying “yeah… am I yours?” she wraps her arms around my stomach, laughing very softly, and says, “You’re my only.”

Twenty-nine (morning)

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I say softly, brushing hair out of her face. She grumbles at me, never a morning person.

Thirty (grass)

We both hate nature. We’ve always agreed that it’s beautiful and healthy but just not for us. so when my grandmother forces us to spend a week with her on the mountain she lives on, near a creek and woods and all of that natural stuff, we spend the entire time on the rocks near the creek – the closest thing we can find to the metal of the city. My grandmother, being an old, fat woman, never comes to check on us, and always seems satisfied when we tell her we’ve been off hiking. Which, technically, we have – hiking down to the creek and back up is actually quite a bit of work. I’m almost sad when we return to the city, and we make plans to come back twice a year.

Thirty-one (after)

I’m crying, and she’s holding me, listening to me choke out my sob story. She’s really pissed off at me, I can tell, but I can also tell that she understands that this is my biggest regret, and she tucks my hair behind my ears and waits for me to finish. She says softly, in a dangerously calm tone, “that was the stupidest thing you ever could have done. You could be sick.”

Thirty-two (cold)

She wraps a blanket around me, letting me lean into her silently. “I’m such a mess, baby,” I say softly, after a very long pause. “I don’t know how you put up with me and all of my crises.” she tugs me closer to her. “I have them too, and I’m sharing this with you, silly. It’ll get solved soon, I promise.”

Thirty-three (stop)

I’m jumping out of my own skin, craving her touch, wanting to show her that I can live up to what she wants me to be, that I can be everything she ever needs. She pushes me away from her, sulking like she has been for so long.

Thirty-four (driven)

“He killed himself,” I whisper softly, and she takes my hand, pulls me closer to herself, and kisses softly at the side of my face, where tears are already wearing paths, causing me to cry harder, and she cuddles me closer, whispering, “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Thirty-five (dry)

“This is my favorite place in the world,” I tell her one evening, pointing at the map, and before I know it, we are living in a small apartment here, living in a medium-sized house here, keeping kittens here, and raising children here, following burn bans here, watching sunsets here.

Thirty-six (placid)

“I’m such a fucking basket case,” I whisper. “I hate myself.” I’m crying as usual, and as usual, she’s holding me calmly, making everything better, humming an eighties metal song in my ears. “You probably hate me too, and you just put up with me because you feel sorry for me.”

She takes both of my hands into hers gently. “I don’t hate you, baby,” she whispers back. “Quite the opposite.”

Thirty-seven (escort)

She sold half of her albums so that she could afford to go with me to senior prom. I begged her not to and refused to go when she did, so instead she used the money to completely spoil me.

I started buying the albums back for her at Christmas that year.

Thirty-eight (hand)

The ring is glittering, practically lighting up my entire hand. just a band, not a rock, which touches me – she remembered and I think it’s sweet – but it’s still so completely gorgeous.

Thirty-nine (soon)

I pull her by the wrist to look at the calendar, and she counts the days until her birthday, when she can leave and come stay in the little apartment I currently have to myself.

Forty (exchange)

She laughs, picking me up and carrying me into her room. “Baby doll,” she tells me, in a ‘don’t-be-silly’ tone, “you’re not using me. You make me just as happy as I could possibly make you, and probably more.”

Forty-one (fair)

One evening, its summer and we’re talking about the state fair. “I’ve never been to one,” she tells me, and within the hour we’re filling ourselves full with overpriced corn dogs and funnel cake.

Forty-two (humor)

Horror movies make us laugh. The worse they are the better.

Forty-three (most)

We take the youngest to the zoo one day, her brother deciding he’s too old to enjoy it. The two of us are more interested in the animals than the youngest, squealing at polar bears.

Forty-four (know)

we’d broken up for maybe four months once, while we were still in college, finding trouble with the long-distance thing, and I’d found a beautiful redheaded girl. I loved her, almost, but she could never have replaced Anabel.

When I say this, of course, all Anabel says is, “I know.”

Forty-five (waves)

Lucy and I are on the beach, watching the sun set. Soon I will go home to my family, and tell them about my day, and prove to Anabel that I’m living up to all of my promises. Not that I feel like she doubts me. Maybe I’m proving it to myself.

I’m lost in thought, and Lucy is wrapping an arm around me, trying to pull me close to her. I don’t move, and she gives up and moves closer to me instead. She says something – I don’t catch it – and then kisses at my neck.

I push her away from me, trying hard not to think, ‘if I hadn’t been thinking about Anabel just then, would I have let her?’

She drives me home, not talking to me.

Forty-six (abundance)

The floor is covered in white flower petals, looking like they would make a very soft bed, and I just want to lay there with Anabel and stare at the ceiling and talk, like we did when we were just teenagers, like we still do now.

Forty-seven (sin)

“I wish you would stop, baby,” she says softly. “You’re going to get yourself killed and I’m going to only be able to sit here and watch.”

Forty-eight (animal)

We are listening to the downward spiral, remembering being young and in love with our music more than each other. A certain track brings back a certain memory, and after a moment of hesitation, control, she more or less pounces me, seeming to agree with the thoughts I didn’t voice.

Forty-nine (irresponsible)

I was supposed to pick up a friend’s kids. I forgot. Anabel is pissed off.

“I don’t even know what you’ve become anymore, Olivia. You’ve never been the type not to honor a commitment. What makes your life so fucking terrible that you need to drink it all away, that you need to forget everything, even the promises you make to your close friends?”

I consider. She interrupts me.

“It hurts, you know. It makes me feel like I’m not good enough because you need to drink to be able to bear being with me anymore.”

“I don’t need it anymore,” I say quietly. “But I need it even more than I did when I had something to forget. If that makes any sense.” I know that it doesn’t, but she understands.

Before I know it I’m going to meetings.

Fifty (need)

she’s sleeping on the floor in my living room, looking completely peaceful, making me want and need and long to disrupt her and ruin her moment –well, to be honest, my moment – of happiness and satisfaction. I want to kick myself for being masochistic enough that I would consider doing that to her.

Fifty-one (believe)

We lay awake one night, talking about life and love and work and above all, god. She is an atheist and I’ve always admired her lack of faith just as much as I’d admire faith at all.

Fifty-two (touch)

if we were a movie, at this moment the two of us would be standing like this, with her arms around my waist and my head on her shoulder, and the camera would be moving around us to make it look like we were spinning. Something from mechanical animals would be sound tracking this moment, and this peaceful scene would fade away quietly.

Fifty-three (cloth)

My panic attacks are getting worse, and coming more and more often. I’m waking up in the middle of the night shaking to go force myself to throw up in hopes I’ll feel better. She’s waking up in the middle of the night worried, holding cold washcloths over my face, asking me what it is I’m so stressed about. I don’t know. I never know.

Fifty-four (elbow)

Band-aids on minor wounds, bendy straws in juice boxes, and matching reversible comforter sets sum up our life right now. The peace is nice.

Fifty-five (ability)

I’m better now. I just realized it and I know without doubt that it’s true. It doesn’t bother me anymore that I’ll never be able to drink again, not nearly as much as the thought of trying and losing control. I said I could do this, and I have.

Fifty-six (later)

We’re dozed off on the couches in the living room, in front of some sci-fi marathon. The children are whining, wanting to go to a movie.

Fifty-seven (now)

She’s so perfect, she’s always been so perfect, ever since I pierced her ear at her house with a needle because her mother wouldn’t let her get it done professionally, and even now that our oldest wants to get a tattoo and we won’t let him.

Fifty-eight (madness)

The oldest is going to state for a spelling bee, and it’s so much chaos and excitement and pride that we’re exhausted by the time we get back home.

Fifty-nine (drunk)

The first week, I’m fine. By the third, however, and just one bad day, I’m mumbling my curses to “whoever put happiness in a bottle.”

“Blame Hofmann,” she says softly, and I remind her that acid’s not my poison.

“Blame him anyway.”

Sixty (key)

The oldest has started taking the bus, and we’ve given him a house key. She jokes that now she can’t tackle me in the living room anymore, since he might walk in at any second.