The wine washed down my throat, burning with bitterness as it did so, but somehow, I managed to find something likeable about it at all. I wasn’t usually a drinker. I wasn’t anywhere near being a drinker, but there was something about drinking that just appealed to me at the moment. I knew that if anyone were to see me right now, they would believe that I had fallen off the wagon, that something had gone seriously wrong—which it had, and that was how I was choosing to justify my day drinking. And besides, it wasn’t like there was anything better for me to do either.
Of all the things that I had imagined myself doing at the moment, this wasn’t one of them. And the fact that there was a three-headed dog laying on the carpet in front of my couch didn’t make me feel any better either. I took
