I look down at my watch and curse myself.  'Shit.'  It was already four in the morning, and I hadn't called to tell you I was going to be late, because, Hell, I didn't even know I was going to be late.  I know you'd be worried, but hopefully you weren't waiting up for me, sitting on the couch and staring at the front door, thinking of all the things that could have happened to me while I was out, thinking of all the things you would say to me when I got home.  I hope you went to bed early, and hadn't realized I wasn't home yet.

    There is a pounding in my head that spreads all the way down to my left shoulder when I sit up, realizing I am lying in the parking lot of some random bar in town, conveniently beside my parked car.  My first thought is that I had been mugged, but upon checking my back pocket for my wallet, I find it was still there, all my credit cards and a small amount of cash still intact.  Maybe I had passed out.  After all, I had had a few drinks in the bar with some co-workers to celebrate an account that we had just gotten, so maybe I had just had more drinks than I thought.  I can't really remember anything all too clearly, probably because of the headache and the alcohol, but I can see okay so I figured I was ok to drive.

    Getting in the car, however, is far more difficult than I had previously thought.  My coordination is slightly off, confirming my earlier thought of intoxication, but I really need to get home, and not many people are on the road at this time, so I take the chance of driving anyway.  Getting my seatbelt on is difficult too, because my left shoulder hurts too much to bend it back, and, truthfully, I don't quite know if I can make a grab for it and succeed anyway, so I choose to drive seatbeltless.  Stupid, yes, but what other choice do I have?  I, for one, can't think of any.

    So after fumbling with my keys, I finally get them into the ignition, having a slight relapse in memory of how to actually drive before putting the gear into the proper position and stepping on the gas with some misses.  It takes a while to remember how to get home, but at least there aren't many people on the street, because I am swerving almost severely and I am not sure why.  I can see clearly, but no matter how hard I try to keep the car straight, I can't.  When I do make it home, I don't make it into the driveway.  I pull up, more like skid, to a stop right in the front yard, the passenger door beside the porch. 

    I'm sure you heard the car screeching, so I don't even bother pulling the keys from the ignition, or shutting the door as I fall out of the car, fumbling my way to the front door of our house and practically breaking it off the hinges trying to open it.

    My thought processes aren't really working, but I can see that you aren't in the living room, and upon glancing into the kitchen I am attacked by a sudden wave of the munchies that I only used to get in my pot smoking days. 

    Maybe someone slipped something in my drink.

    But that didn't matter now, because I am already stumbling halfway up the stairs, and by the time I make it to our bedroom I see that the door is open, and that you are sitting on the bed, your eyes on me, wide, shocked and scared. 

    I'm sorry, I try to say, but I'm not sure if you could understand me because my speech is so slurred that I can't even understand myself, but I stagger closer to you anyway, trying to apologize for being late, for scaring you just now, but you only shy away, moving away from me because you're mad at me, and I don't blame you.  You're yelling at me, telling me to stay away from you, saying things that make me hurt so much inside that my eyes cloud over with tears.  You don't want to hear my meaningless words, or smell the alcohol on my breath.  But I know that in the morning, the smell of pancakes will wake me up, and when I get up from the couch that I've been sleeping on all night, you will be there in the kitchen, cooking me breakfast with a smile on your face and forgiveness on your tongue, and everything will be alright again.

    Please, I need...I find myself walking closer to you, my legs working of their own volition, even though you look so disgusted with me as you stand huddled in the corner on the other side of the bed, and I'm sorry, I really am.  I love you.  But you don't seem to hear me.  I have gotten around the bed now, holding my arms out to you in a desperate attempt to show you how much you mean to me, to show you that I love you, and I barely register that your hand is in the nightstand next to the bed because my mindset is on you until you pull the metal from its emergency hiding place and point the barrel at me. 

    No, don't.  Baby, I'm really...I need...There are tears in your eyes, but I don't understand.  I don't understand why you have the gun pointed in my face, and I'm scared and confused, and I hurt, and I can't believe you are going to ruin everything we have just because I stayed out late one night, and I don't understand why you are doing this, but I don't think you would really pull the trigger, because I know you love me too much, and I know that I need to get to you, to-

    The pain in my head is replaced by something different, sharper.  My mouth can no longer form the words I've been trying to tell you, the apologies that have been slipping through my lips like the blood is now doing, and you're crying harder now, whispering I'm sorry over and over again as my body falls to the floor, yours sliding down the opposite wall with it, but I forgive you for this, even though I don't understand.