The best of her work was in front of her. But just in front. Approximate. This was good, objectively—but subjectively, very bad. She had to get drunk. But diiiid she? Her mind ran through the scientifically verified listicles she’d read, the after school specials she had watched. She knew that even though she was smart, loved, relatively successful, she could fall into the throws of addiction. She thought about the concept of boundaries. She would just have to erect some. Four drinks today and only today. Otherwise, three tops. Unless it was a Saturday and friends were in town. Then five. But one had to be a tall glass of water and two, hard kombucha. That felt right.
But life leered at her. Or another life. She talked herself up. She had taken to crafting mini-scripts alone in her house. She couldn’t believe she lived in a house, on the ground. She talked to herself as if she were other people. She thought, I’m a great actor. She was! She was good. Fuck the high school theater nerd oligarchy. She had chops. She paced in her two-bedroom house spewing decent lines with expert gesture. Would her life turn out to be what coming events suggested? Would her brilliance bear out? Would she have to read all the books she bought?
She poured a gin. And then thought, well, we have tonic, so why wouldn’t I use it? This was exactly the person she was, she knew. The gin, alone, was classier. More interesting. Potentially better-tasting. The quinine was a relic—of what? Of the mid century modern aspirations of her first years in college. But she hadn’t outgrown any of it. Lovely people enjoyed tonic, too. She would let herself sit amongst these people, even as she imagined Marlene Dietrich, Grace Jones—they would just have the gin.
What was happening? Was everything she had set out to do supposed to happen? Or would she die in a random event, “too soon”? Those felt like the stakes of her life now. At other times: Would her goodness expand and not contract. Would she have children who were kind and funny. Would she weep when she felt like weeping. Die in her sleep, only a little disappointed? The tonic baked on her tongue. She felt ready to birth a loaf of bread from the gaps in her teeth. She didn’t understand alcohol though she had surely spent the equivalent of all her outstanding debts on it.
She wondered if she was doing it right—hoped she was still doing it a bit wrong. Imagined, tomorrow, she’d start kissing everyone on the mouth. Knew she would settle for the cheek.