20 is a magic number.
The house was a mess. There were unwashed dishes on the sink; a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. The dog was dead. There were hundreds of empty bottles. There was no more alcohol to drink, but we couldn’t sleep. There was only that tub of ice cream that we were eating together. It was your favorite flavor, pistachio. It was when everybody left, when everything was gone. I can’t remember what you said, but I remembered saying Happy Birthday, because it was the 20th, the 20th closest to Christmas, the 20th that was closest to my heart.
And then you left.