She had one screwdriver

She is the only one The one I write about She never drank never lost her inhibition with libation never late to the station. She had one screwdriver once. She hated it. She is not this woman next to me not joking about Tom Selek. Why was her loss so profound? Why did it kill something in me? Regret, regret of my defiance, guilt of my rejection, shame of not being as great as she thought I was.