sick of writing letters to a boy who burnt his mailbox.

Tracing the bottom of an empty glass with her finger, she wondered where along the line she lost her taste for schnapps and acquired a craving for Pomegranate Lemonade. It couldn't have been the overwhelming sweetness or the fact that her teeth literally ached after downing a glass, but perhaps the fact that twitching from the taste allowed her some kind of escape from feeling numb and looking lost. Tilting her head to look at her reflection in the countertop, she wondered where she lost her knack for conversation and mastered the art of analyzing her thoughts in the form of self-conversing. It was the worst possible dialogue, when the audience was an empty bar stool.