6
Within an hour, I’ll be slurping straight from the bottle, but, since it’s only my first drink of the night, I haven’t yet turned into a catastrophe. Friday April thirteenth—unlucky and un-sober. Or, maybe, an auspicious beginning to a new and different way of life.
I don’t need AA. My problem isn’t alcohol. It’s coke. As long as I stay away from that, I’ll be fine. Besides, I don’t feel like going to a women’s meeting tonight and, after Wednesday’s debacle, the last thing I need is to run into the cardigan-wearing c****m-klutz.
I swivel around on my barstool—martini in hand—and survey Arnie’s Alehouse for prospects.
A tall Asian guy with an inviting smile is talking to some woman—probably his wife or girlfriend—and, while I’m not above hooking up with someone who’s taken (in the bat
