Some days, she wonders if she has an alcohol use disorder.
Just a little glass of wine, she tells herself in the morning, as she sits down to start work. Just to get the flow going.
She breaks for lunch and has a beer. You can’t have burgers without beer, she thinks. A cold beer on a hot day, what could be wrong with that?
At night, she drinks cocktails and revels in the clink of metal against glassware as the bartender mixes her drinks.
Most nights, she drinks alone.
Some nights, men buy her shots and whisky and Cosmopolitans. She doesn’t know why they think she’ll love cosmos.
If he buys me a Negroni or an Old Fashion, I’ll take him home, she thinks. They never do.
She never drinks to oblivion. She’s always buzzed but never sloppy. She doesn’t have hangovers, only mild headaches. And if those happen, they’re always gone by midday.
I don’t drink too much, she thinks. I don’t even have hangovers.
But on days when she’s dry, she paces the floor. She can’t sit down long enough to be productive. She lies awake in bed, thinking about how sleepy she’s going to be tomorrow.
She thinks about what she’s going to buy tomorrow, when she goes shopping. Makes a list in her head. Pink Moscato, Sauvignon Blanc, Johnnie Walker Black, any kind of decent vodka, six-pack of beer.
It’s as effective as counting sheep. Before she gets to the end of her list, she’s asleep.