Booze stripped our judgment and wisdom while we attempted to get our respective points across to one another. We both consumed high percentages of alcohol that night, and probably shouldn’t have driven home.  “Is he serious?  I know I’m making perfect sense, right? Who gives a shit; he’s being a sensitive queen right now.”  Part of me wished I could hear what was going through his head in between the audible explosions we were triggering. Thank goodness for roommates that’ll take you on a walk down the street at however-many-hours-past-midnight to make you vent; expelling any venomous thought that remained.  On this particular night – filled with dark, inquiring clouds – there would be no understanding, reasoning, or love.  Was this part of love? Blinded by the event of our first big fight, the only thing we felt that night was the air tunnel our parted bodies forged beneath cold, wrinkled sheets.