You would think the time her mini”bottles of hard chard” and cans of sauvignon blancs and rose spilled out of her bag and rolled down the bus, exposing her private shame, it might be an opportune time to quit. Particularly when two of the cans stopped at the foot of a woman, who looked much too conveniently like her mother politely handed her the cans but was clearly judging her.
One of the bottles of “hard chard” escaped the woman’s foot. She had to let it roll, roll on…like those cans of soda people leave on the subway all the damn time. Nobody gave a good goddam about those cans. Perhaps she could make a clean get away…Her stop was approaching; she had just pressed the yellow tape and was about to step off…
“Miss ” She tried to pretend she didn’t hear him.
Everyone heard him. She had no choice but to turn around. He pointed to the runaway bottle.
“Thanks.” she said cooly. “It’s alright.” She wanted to, but knew she couldn’t retrieve the runaway can-her bag was too heavy. Her backpack was ladened with bottles. She would never be able to bend over, pick those lost cans up and recover gracefully.
Therefore, she stepped off the bus with caution. She couldn’t afford to break any of the precious cargo stuffed into her gymbag. The girls at Fairway wine and liquor knew better than to put her bottles in bags. They knew to take all the cans and mini bottles from their containers( she would help of course) so she could stuff them into her inconspicuous decoy! No one could/should suspect the bag on her back was full of wine and not gym clothes. Besides, kthe way she was sweating as she trudged up the hill towards home legitimized the act. This too, was a workout, as hard as they come.
She was not a quitter. Refused to give up, even after every single wine glass in the house was broken-one even broke in her hands while she washed it, resulting in a visit to the ER and stitches in the most awkward place on a hand that one could have stitches. There was only one wine glass left in the apartment, and that glass had only a stem; no f0ot to hold it steady-to plant it on a table or the floor somewhere. If she were drinking from it, it would have to be in her hand the entire time. There was no place to rest the wine.
You’d think that’d be enough.
Nearly every week she trudged up the hill to home carrying at least 20 lbs of wine on her back, could be more depending on her mood, sweating profusely in the oppressive heat of summer. She convinced herself that the heavy lifting and uphill battle was part of her workout and therefore, the wine justified; a well deserved treat for the burdens, physical and otherwise that she had been forced to carry.
Once she was safely inside the confines of her apartment she removed the bottles from her gym bag and arrayed them on the dining table like trophies.
“This is too much. No more bottles after this.” Or so she she told herself after every trip from the liquor store. She didn’t know why she hid the bag-the zipper was broken on the duffle; the bottles were “hidden” in plain sight. She knew he saw them. He just didn’t care enough to confront her anymore.
She would never dare blame him.
Hiding the bottles was moot. Whether or not the bottles were visible, her problem was as clear as a pimple on a warthog.
She had to stop fucking drinking.