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First step: text Dwight. I don’t want to do anything I’ll regret unless I know he’s available to talk.
Hey, I type. Can you talk?
His reply arrives immediately. Sure.
I’ll call you in five.
I stare down at my phone and the bottle of Patrón.
I should call April. Or pray. Or meditate. Or go to a yoga class. Or do anything other than what I’m about to do. But nothing else will suffice. So I uncork the bottle.
A glass is unnecessary. There is nothing refined about this moment.
I spread my lips and open—wide and receptive. The Patrón is strong. Pungent. Biting. Astringent. It scorches my esophagus. I take several swigs, then gulp water directly from the kitchen faucet, my hands forming a makeshift cup as I shovel liquid into my body, putting out a fire of my own making.
“Hey kiddo.”
