text: The voice was in his head again. It plagued him; it haunted him. The glass bottle, chilled by the cool air conditioning, continued to get lighter as the voice carried on. He always loved her. He did, anyway. “I did love you,” he thought. The voice carried on. It cut through him, like the aged scotch that he, too, loved so much. The scotch, the cigarettes, the children, the dog, his mother. He loved them all. Of course, he had to give them all up at some point, some easier than others. Some came back, some he brought back; others stayed gone. First it was the dog, but he came back after a week. Then the cigarettes when he promised his mother in the hospital that one day. The sun was bright, shining through the blinds and reflecting off of the bleached white sheets that seemed to smother her with every heaving breath. The children, though. They never call anymore. Not for him, anyway. “I used to love you,” he thought aloud this time, pouring another drink. He felt the stiff palm against his recently shaved head. “Another spot on the carpet from a spilled drink,” he said to the voice. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. “What does any of it matter?” thinking internally again. Walking down the dark hallway, he could hear the voice echoing after him. He didn't bother to close the door behind him today, which gave the voice the perfect opportunity to follow him, like the childhood dreams he let go of after father didn't come back. The framed photograph on the armoire reflected his sadness. A young boy refused to look at the camera, choosing instead to focus on his father’s worn loafers. The smell of the sea came rushing back; memories of father, memories of sailing. The heavy glass door leading to the balcony could be pried open with some work. It was a nice balcony. It was a nice apartment. It was nice enough, anyway. It’s not why he rented the apartment. It’s not why she stayed, either. They had attended the same university, but that’s not how she met him. He had become quite successful after graduating from business school, but that’s not why she married him. He made sure to close the door behind him this time. The voice did not follow him here. The bottle was empty now. It was good scotch, but that didn't matter. He didn't drink it because it was good scotch. He missed the dog. He missed his mother. He missed sailing. He missed the days when she and he would lay under the stars after a party at his fraternity and tell her how much he loved her; how he wanted to have his mother meet her. But that didn't matter. The breeze blew along his scalp, through the short-cropped haircut. There was a steel fence along the perimeter of the balcony, but that didn't matter. He left the empty bottle sitting on the glass tabletop, next to the worn, matching lawn chair. He took off his shoes and set them next to the glass bottle. They were the same shoes he had worn to his daughter’s wedding last summer. But that didn't matter. The wind blew through his hair quickly, pushing its way through his button-up shirt, his tie flapping violently. He was sailing again.