G

this work is in progress

If you asked George about it, you'd hear George's version.
It took me a while to learn, and then another while to understand that this wasn't anything of significance. 

I can't say with honesty that I remember what it's like to be in the throes of severe addiction. I know that I've done terrible things to other people, and that I'd done terrible things to myself. In my head, mathematically, it makes sense that time and sobriety, with focus on building a new life, would present memory loss as a side effect. What I don't know is embarrassing to me, but that embarrassment is a privilege. I'm not left with the scars and details of the blows I'd landed on the people I cared about- those ghosts trailed behind them. Meeting George helped me understand this- when they get sober, it's kinda like that a*****e got away with everything.

It was the second night I'd ever spent with him. I didn't realize it at the time, but we were spending the night on the floor of his work office because his girlfriend was at the apartment they shared, and he couldn't bring me there for that specific reason. He told me later into the relationship that if he'd been honest with me, that the woman he lived with was his girlfriend, we never would have met in person. He was right.
I was still smoking weed at this time. I hadn't yet been broken down enough to start drinking casually, so I stuck to my California sobriety- an excuse which I gripped like a badge of honor. George's case was not the same. He was a heavy drinker. The type of alcoholism that's severe enough to make a person forgo a shower, forget a toothbrush before meeting a girl they believed they were in love with. Lucky for George, my bar was also in hell, it simply manifested differently. 
He was pissed, I was a little stoned, and at the time, the floor was fine for me. I hadn't been around many people who drank this heavily since I'd been in my late teens, and I'd forgotten what it was like to have to take care of an adult person. The part of me that chose to get sober was fundamentally in disagreement with this notion, at this age, and I was caught between my attraction to this dark-eyed, tattooed man and wanting to leave him where he passed out without finding him some water. Weed, however, would always make me cuddly, so I got the water.
Sometime late in the night, after all of the staring and wordiness and dreamy blasphemy, we'd hunkered down underneath the computer desk, using my sweater as a pillow, and tried to sleep. Sleeping isn't hard when you're so drunk, but it is a challenge when you've chosen a sativa, and you're ready to vomit with the intuitive angst of knowing that you've made a poor decision. 
I figured it was the water bottle I bought from the gas station that had fallen over without a lid, during our tangled sleep. I'd woken up wet, uncomfortable, and even more uncomfortable to find that there was no water bottle nearby. The water bottle was full, capped, and on the desk above us, staring at me aghast. I can't recall if I'd tried and failed to wake up George, or if I'd dissociated enough to fall back asleep, but I know the hours waiting for morning were long, and I found no comfort in the green and blue computer lights blinking at me- laughing at what we both knew was the answer to my question.
"I think I pissed myself. I pissed on you." Light was coming through the office blinds, causing us both to squint. George stared at me, and laughed, and then covered his face in shame. At the time, I thought he felt bad for having put me through an experience like that. Now I know it was because you can't be the best in the world and also piss on the woman of your dreams. He dug around in his desk drawers for another one of he buzz balls I'd bought him at the gas station. He cracked it open in delight, like he'd bumped into an old friend. I sniffed my sweater, got myself to my feet, wide-eyed, and made my way through the labyrinth of unfamiliar corporate hallways to the company restroom. 
The mirror was unimpressed, and powerless. "Why?" she asked me. I was silent. The smudged makeup would have been cute if it weren't for the red ring of raw skin near my mouth, grated like bad cheese by George's stubble and awful kissing. This was a trivial thing to be perturbed by, for a woman covered in human urine. I was outside of myself, floating around the tall ceiling and thinking of what to do next. What occurred to me instead of leaving San Antonio to go home, was: "my hair looks so angelic, and I look cute in his jacket." Piss wafting behind me, I made my way back to offer George a ride to the store to get a new blanket.