Waiting for Charon

            I drank that night, a small amount, no more than a couple shots of vodka. I had promised my girlfriend we’d stop by her friend’s apartment for a little get together. Bottles appeared, edging out from every corner of the living room and kitchen: Smirnoff from the fridge, Malibu from the cabinets, and Grey Goose from behind the couch. The party came alive after that. Girls taking off their shirts, dancing promiscuously with any free boy. I wasn’t free, however. 
         After a couple hours I was ready to leave, and my girlfriend agreed. Everything was dying down. I felt right in the mind. I didn’t even get a tingling sensation from running my fingers through my hair. So I decided I would drive the mile back to my girlfriend’s place.
         Right out of the apartment gate, a cop car was stationed. I drove past slowly, tense, silent as death, while my girlfriend talked loudly on her cell phone. I’d passed the cop car, smooth, stealthily as night, and continued to drive on. And then, as my car was close enough to turn the corner, I looked up into my rearview mirror. Come from the underworld, a quick and fiery-eyed phantom suddenly appeared out of the darkness. I felt slowly drawn back into the specter’s gaze, until it willed that I be utterly still. I found myself standing at the street’s edge, chained at the wrists like a slave. Cars floated by like ferry boats on the murky waters of Lethe. And I stared fixedly out into the black void of the night, frightened at what might be staring back.