Sea Legs (A Flash Fiction)

It comes back too easily. A year of sobriety, but I never really lost my sea legs.

One drink to set sail.

Laughing, his fingers graze my arm. Testing the waters.

Whiskey flows, flooding my mind. The room swims around me. Kaleidoscope of colors, thumping rhythm, grinding sweaty bodies. I’m riding the swells that threaten to capsize me. I’ve been here before, so many times.

I need to go, to find harbor before the storm breaks.

I pay my tab.

“I’m gonna buy you a shot,” he says with a devious grin. Whiskey burns past my lips, setting my body alight. Instant regret as the riptide pulls me out past the breakers.

I wash ashore the next morning, seaweed in my hair, salt sticking to my skin, a little more broken than before. Am I a survivor, or am I the shipwreck?


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