(Two minutes after the initial alert.)
Malbec dissolves on his tongue; his heart pumping a freshly recycled dose toward the groin.
Oxygenated, liberated for 12 more hours.
It's 6:48. Prime time.
With measured gulps, the sun casts an intoxicating glow onto the front porch where he and I take in our drags.
With no shame he matter-of-factly says, "I'm an alcoholic."
He accepted his fate a long time ago, perhaps never wrestling with issues of image. He loves every sip, getting tuned. It's the system and the children that inhibit, but neither consequence of disinhibition warrants sobriety.
It's a post-war existence on a higher plane. A place he's prefer not the innocent.
But what a fun ride she misses out on, one with choking and toys.
She laments, igniting her own self-destruction only without a DUI and a reputation. Without him.