The evening had taken a sour turn.
My pockets were empty,
my bank account even more so.

I’d accused him of theft,
my anger a tempest brewing within.

But as I rummaged through my belongings,
a revelation dawned,
the last drops of my drink had spilled,
creating a chaotic dance in my pockets.

My three hundred kroner, safe and sound,
had simply been misplaced.

Guilt gnawed at me.
I’d been so quick to judge, so eager to accuse.
An apology was due, a gesture of reconciliation.

But my bottle, once a source of comfort,
was now empty.
I couldn’t offer a drink, a small token of amends.

Defeated, I turned away and drifted off to sleep,
haunted by the weight of my mistake.