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The car sits idling outside my house, its headlights cutting through the otherwise complete blackness. It’s raining heavily, and every few seconds the windshield wipers on the car brush up and down the windshields. The god-awful squeal they make reminds me of when I was when I was growing up on the farm and dad would slaughter the pigs at the beginning of spring so the hams would be ready for sale by Easter.

The headlights click on and off, and I know she’s spotted me. I draw my hand back from the blinds like they are white hot, and stumble back from the window.

Despite my best efforts, a sob escapes my mouth. Tears follow rapidly. I know I was drunk. I know I shouldn’t have driven that night. I had blacked out–not that that’s any defense–and her headlights are all that I remember after leaving the party.

I’ve done my time, society has forgiven me. So god, oh god, why can’t she?

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