I wanted a drink; a gin and tonic, to be precise. A reward
for finishing a project I’d been laboring on for the past three months, in a
day where I’d also been tested (declining irregular contracted nouns in the
third declension in Ancient Greek) and flitted back and forth to campus four
times on foot to hand in a shorter project on time (also completed today). But
I was afraid to ask if you’d like to go, or even to go myself, by myself; I
didn’t want to give you further, secret ammunition to use against me.
I was dumbstruck the first time you used drinking as a
weapon against me; deliberately leading the conversation here in the middle of
a fight on completely unrelated territory, wondering if I were an alcoholic, in
so many words. Apparently tallying the drinks I bought myself to unwind,
evidence of money I selfishly spent on myself. Not so innocently, though you
gave no indication at any time that this might be a problem, and so I went
merrily along, thinking I was, in your eyes as in my own, having a drink for
fun. My right, my minor indulgence in a fairly serious-minded, spare year.
Wanting one now, I have to wonder what you’ll think. Yes, I
accomplished something I’ve been working on for a long time, and yes I worked
hard all day and have been working hard for a while now. But I had a beer
earlier. I wonder that you’ll think that wanting a drink after a long day is
physical dependence. I wonder that you’ll point to this day in specific as
evidence that I don’t value you (I still don’t understand how that argument
goes).
I find myself becoming irritated, just sitting here on the
couch stewing, wanting that drink. Watching you build across the room, feeling
matronly and tightly strung in my best boots and my red top and my tight black
jeans. Blonde bangs in my face, putting the same stale water into the kettle,
to boil it for the third time.
