“I'm done pretending,” I say quietly, my voice smoky from the burning liquor, but serious nonetheless.  It has the desired effect and you calm down again, allowing me to lead you back to the sofa. We sit, keeping an unspoken distance between us.
“If we're going to do this properly, we need to get rid of that.” You gesture towards the bottle with your toe, and a touch of vengeance seeps through the word 'that'. Evidently you blame that bottle for our original mistake. Though, even after all that's gone wrong since, I still don't think of that first time as an error of judgement.
I'm anxious to keep you happy so I gather up the bottle and our two glasses, despite the fact that 'if we're going to do this' I think I might need the whiskey. Noticing your glass is cracked from when you knocked it over I hurl it into the dustbin without even bothering to swear. I don't care enough to swear. I dump my glass and the nearly empty bottle on the counter, grab a paper towel and stagger back into the lounge. My heart's battering its way against my ribs, and taking into account the slightly sick feeling in my stomach I realise I must be nervous. I conceal this by bending over and mopping up the amber liquid that's slowly sinking into my carpet.
“It's already stained.” You point out helpfully.
“Well, yeah, thanks to you.”
“Sorry.” I'm surprised. You don't normally apologise, and the way you say it implies you're talking about a lot more than some spilt whiskey and a damaged carpet. I get up; “I guess I might as well leave it then. Sort this out tomorrow. Afternoon. Once my head stops pounding.”
“You that drunk?” Your tone's almost teasing as you look up at me, and we're slipping back into the realms of normal conversation.
“Ummm.... yes. You?”
“And then some.” You laugh but it's empty, and I know we have to stop beating around the bush. I sit down on the sofa again, sinking into the cushions and allowing the silence to settle before disturbing it again.
“You said you were sorry.” I wait for a reply, but obviously your wish to 'talk' isn't actually going to inspire you to say anything unless I ask you a direct question. “What are you sorry for?”
There's another pause, one that's dense with you trying to work up the nerve to just give me a straight answer. I get the feeling your courage levels aren't particularly high at the moment so I provide a prompt: “You said you can't go on like this. So now is the time for the truth. Hell, we probably won't even remember this tomorrow.”
I never was very good at managing a sentence with no smart or witty comments in. It works anyway.
“I'm sorry for...caring about you.”
I'm not expecting this, and I'm genuinely curious; I can't read you so well anymore. “Sorry to me or yourself?”
“Both. Sorry to me because, frankly, I'm messing myself up. Sorry to you because... maybe if I didn't care, this would never have got awkward. We could have stayed mates and had the hot sex as a bonus, not an unspoken 30 foot wall between us.”
I don't reply immediately and exactly how silent it is at three o' clock in the morning suddenly hits me. I have the lights set on dim and the curtains drawn, and I feel enclosed; small; like a trapped little girl again. Which is odd, considering what we're discussing. I link my hands, twisting them anxiously while I begin to speak, with the voice of a child owning up to some dreadful crime. “I never told you, and I should have.” I pause again, but you can sense I'm not finished so you remain silent. “The first time, that first night we had sex, it didn't feel like 'hot' sex. It didn't feel like a good release... It felt right.”
The heavy velvet curtains swallows my voice as I see a wretched tear drip down your face, and I know I've said far too much.