Some people know the moment of no return.

The moment

IT has you.

For some, it’s food; some booze. It’s harder when you recognize that moment in yourself.

It’s less hard when you see it in a sibling, but still you worry (at least).

With a good friend it’s even less so, but still so.

And then there’s the satellite friends.

You’re obligated out of a “do the right thing-ness” or some bulls***, but secretely

you wish for the “happened again” and the petering out.

The last time I saw her, she was sucking on a vape blowing cherry-flavored clouds into my ceiling

making the whole thing smell

like a dentist’s office.

“You’re so lucky,” she said, over and over. She kept opening tins of cat food and falling against the stove.

I ask her

how it’s

been.

I meet her for coffee today.

I buy her a

latte to thank

her for taking

care of the

cat. I wait for her to apologize, she doesn’t.

We talk (not about her “gotcha”).

She talks about everything BUT. It’s going well!

I tell her I don’t believe her.

She cries, I console, we say goodbye.

We’ve agreed to the

following: we’ll do

coffee, not drinks; runs / not brunch; museums / no wine tastings.

She will though.

“Thank God that’s over with! I can breathe now!

Totally hear her, I’ll just be

better about tracking my intake. I’ll just do no drinking around

her, like I do at work events!

I’ll still have wine today, it is a

Saturday. And I’m working on

myself, progress not perfection,

right?

I’m doing much better, and I

haven’t had to stop drinking to

do better. Life is a journey.

Besides, my therapist doesn’t think

I have a problem, that’s all that

matters, right?

He’s a psychologist, he would

know if I was an alcoholic.

I’m going to have a glass now

and be easy on myself, that was

a really difficult conversation.

Again, totally hear her, she’s

being a good friend, but the

way she thinks is so black and

white.

Like, she probably assumes if

someone orders wine at lunch

they have a problem, when, like

the French have wine with

lunch all the time!

And I’m a little French, my

drinking is more nuanced than she gets.

“She’s kind of severe, really. Kind of like she’s German. She’s German, I’m

French - that’s the gist of it!

And what did I really do last

time? Just opened up to her

about my insecurities; my

hardships. That’s what

friends DO. Why couldn’t

she just see that for what

it is: a normal (if slightly

buzzed) vent session from

her friend. It’s actually

exactly what a friend

should do.

Like, I hope she appreciates

my apology, think it

was pretty nice of me

given the fact that all

that happened was I

needed a shoulder to

cry on that night.

Y’know what? I am

going to have a glass

of wine now, I deserve

to be kind to myself;

be easier on myself

y’know?

I’m too hard on myself.

I’ve had a rough year.

Shit, I’ve had a rough

couple of years. A

glass of wine on a

Saturday afternoon is

nothing. I mean, I have a job,

I pay all my bills, I even went

to the gym last week.

“Alcoholics can’t do those things.

I’ll call my soccer team, they’re

always up for a night out! Shit,

they see me drinking all the

time and none of them have

ever talked to me about it.

She’s just being sancti-

monious because she’s

doing ‘Dry January.’

What a hypocrite!

I know she’s had

issues with

drinking in

the past

too!

She still drinks, what

makes me different?

Why is it ok for her to do it, but not me?

Fuck her! I’m going to

have a good Saturday!

It’s time to have a

couple of drinks on the

patio and see where the day takes me.

Ah, the weekend

What a good

Saturday this

is going to be.”

I can feel the buzz in her head get louder with each passing block. The ‘I’ll start tomorrow’ talk.

I’ll see her a couple more times

before she decides I’m too

dangerous to be

around.

She’s two drips from

the drop. Not long

now.

I can see it written

in the smudged mascara

from the night before; the hair

she hasn’t washed; her sleeplessness.

Two drips from the drop.

There’s a knock at the door.

She greets it with a clink

and a tilted chin, inviting

the long-fingered shade

to stay for a while.

Before long, he’ll

open up the walls of

her house, and

pull up the boards

of her floor. He’ll

be sand in every

grout crack. Soon

he’ll no longer be

a visitor.

He’ll live in her

bones like bottle

shards in the palm.

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