a small story

She walks out, leaving forever, says, "I'm doing you the biggest favor in your life."
I roll over and fall asleep, the pillow still wet from her tears.
I'm awake at 2am in an insomniac fit.
All the drinks are empty.
At least a dozen vacant bottles.
So I walk to the corner market and I'm the only customer in the store.
I have a tiny cart and put ten bottles of Wild Turkey in it.
Then I grab an extra bottle.
At the checkout, all those little impulse items, I take a package of condoms and some beef jerky.
The cashier asks me if I have ID.
I show it to him and notice he only reads the birthdate.
The cashier asks me cash or credit.
Credit.
The cashier asks for my ID again.
He just reads the name and makes sure it matches the card.
No one ever looks at the picture.
I leave, pushing my little cart down the street.
Two cops pull over, one fat and one short and ask to see my ID.
Do I have a choice?
They run it through a machine without even looking at it.
No warrants, they say, but just in case, what's in the bags.
Eleven bottles of Wild Turkey, some condoms and some beef jerky, I say.
I think this guy is a pervert, the short cop whispers, loud enough that I can hear.
What are you, some kind of pervert? the large one asks.
I plead the 5th.
The cops take me down to the station, sirens blaring.
They say it's just in case.
For several hours they grill me with questions about murdered people.
All I know is what I read in the papers, I say.
This isn't the guy, the one cop whispers, still not quite quiet enough.
You aren't the guy, the other cop says, arms crossed.
The short cop holds up a black and white mugshot.
This man, fat cop says, has been causing terror all over town.
He's killed eleven people already, the other cop mutters.
We thought you were him.
There is a likeness, I say, but how did you get his photograph if you don't know his name?
You can go, says the fat cop.
Can I have my groceries back? I ask.
You can have one bottle.
That's all I need.
I'm forced to walk back to the hotel, about five miles from the station.
I decide to drink.
By the time I have finished half the bottle I start having paranoid delusions that around every corner, down every filthy alley is the serial killer.
I imagine my doppelganger stabbing me with long sharp fingernail knives.
Deep into my neck he thrusts until the blades poke out the other side.
Each step increases my paranoia and my pace, until I am running for my life down empty streets.
It's very quiet.
Then I trip and fall flat on my face.
The Wild Turkey bottle shatters and inch long slivers stab into my neck.
The alcohol seeps warm into my jacket.
I pull the glass out painlessly and I don't bleed much.
The sun rises the moment I return to the hotel.
I go back to my room, which has been cleaned by the maid.
There is a tiny mint on my pillow.