Dear Alcohol
I no longer pray upon waking that I will stay sober yet betray my intention as I step over the threshold and into the street. I don’t cross to the other side, float into the wine shop, and smile at the old man who sits on his stool near the counter. I am no longer Greta GIarbo, hiding under a hat and large dark glasses, and he no longer shares my secret, or calls Hello Madame as he tips his hat, appraises my outfit, approves of my anonymity, believes me cultured because I buy on the expensive side, if only to leave less to chance. I didn’t want disappointment, not the cloying pedestrian tang of a happy hour wine. I wanted elevated escape, flavor reminding me of ease, tranquil naps in the rain on deep porches, open books face down in my lap. I wanted white linen and hushed voices, lawns that stretch verdant green toward a rolling sea, the gentle clink of silver bangles on a tanned wrist, distant laughter, the thinnest stem of a crystal glass, so fragile I could snap it in two with less violence than it takes to blink. I no longer pick up something “civilizing” on my way to work, or pretend I will be serving champagne to clients, purchase crackers and cheese “just in case.” I don’t do mental calculations of how much I can spend, don’t allow myself the luxury of a pause to pretend I have a choice. I don’t absorb the temperature and thick humidity of the day, remember Sancerre tastes like a lick of wet concrete, vodka explodes and then numbs, or linger in front of bottles of red, reading descriptions of my favorites. Dry, smoky, tobacco, pepper, earth: I admire the art of labels, anticipate the warmth that will spread from the back of my throat deep into my chest before I even reach for the bottle. My days are different now. I don’t drink to get through work, then drink more to get through the return home. I don’t fall asleep in the bath, waking as I slip beneath the surface, don’t forget my keys, lock myself out, pretend it’s ok when I can’t remember the last hour, or where my money went. I’m not asked by security to leave a hotel lobby across the street, before they call the police. I don’t slide down my own door jamb, huddle against the wall in the rain, wake on the sidewalk with the hands of a dirty stranger in my pockets, searching for change. I don’t wait until after dark to remember to lock my gallery doors, then lie on a rug behind my desk, too ill to walk the five blocks home. I don’t pretend I’m sober at the grocers, or the bank, or in the Uber or the theatre. I don’t hide bottles behind the linens, or under the sink, or in my underwear drawer, or carry a dish towel in my oversized purse to keep the glass from clinking against my keys. I don’t carry corkscrews. I don’t throw away half-drained bottles, so that I can’t get drunk. Or change my mind and run to the store before it closes, so that I can. I’m 41 days sober and when I wake in the morning I don’t search my pockets or handbag for receipts, stare unbelievingly at charges that exceed my means, at exorbitant gratuities meant to imply I’m a lady. I don’t suppress memory, tamp down shame like bile, tell myself I am just having fun, that this is what we’ve all been doing, having so much fun.
With love, S. Maddox xxx
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