I’m Drunk at Lunch With My Sister
I couldn’t remember why I started drinking, even. Not yet.
“You should see a therapist,” Janice told me.
“It’s not that big of a problem,” I said.
Janice grabbed my neck.
“Just go. It worked for Dad. And Mom. Do you want to end up like Biscuit?”
I stared at the table.
I was pretty drunk.
I finished my drink.
On the way out of the diner, I grabbed my sister’s neck. Or I would’ve fallen down.
I apologized.
“Thanks for breakfast,” she said.
Mom let me taste her margaritas. Growing up. Just a sip from each one. She could knock back quite a few.
“Doesn’t that taste awful?” she always asked.
I always answered, “Yes.”
“So you’ll never drink them when you’re older?”
I always said, “No.” Every time.
One night, coming back from a friend’s, I found my dad lying on his back on the lawn.
I helped him up. It was minus twenty.
