Tonight is Christmas Eve and there are far too many people to handle. I took a plate of carrots because I do not want to eat. As I walked past all the alcohol in the kitchen, I looked around. Everyone was engaged in this or that--"How's the job?" "I'm having some pistachios, anyone want some?"--and son on. I discreetly grabbed a Sam Adams lager from the large tin bin and hid it in my jacket. I got outside through the back foor in the basement and sat on the stairs leading up to the porch. I ate my carrots and stared at the bottle. Oh, so delicious, no wonder I could not resist and practiced the impulsivity I am mastering. I took the bottle and tried to twist the cap off. I put it in my mouth and tried to pry it off with my teeth.
Idiot. I needed a bottle opener. It was upstairs with all the guests. I staggered up the stairs and stood against the counter casually, smiling. I swiped the bottle opener and ran back to my spot. I had a blanket out there and sat on it, taking in the cool air and stars. "Here's to...here's to Sam Adams!" And I drank some more. Only one. It was the most delicious drink I had tasted in so long.
When I was finished I had no idea what to do with the bottle. There was a hole under the deck above the stairs, but I couldn't throw it because it was too high. So, I got on the ledge with the railing, shaking and almost falling, and gently inserted it into the dirt and leaves under the neglected little section of that deck. I jumped off and bumped my head and slammed my bad ankle--must have been at least nine feet--and sat for a second, trying to see straight. Then, I got back up, brushed off my clothes, swayed my way upstairs, and collapsed on my mother's bed, complaining of the pain in my ankle.
"I wonder why it's looking worse," she said with curiosity.
"I have no idea."