I should have gone right to bed when I got home, but I didn’t. I didn’t even go straight home, to tell the truth. On the road between the Havillands’ house and my apartment was a liquor store. I must have passed the place a thousand times and barely noticed it. But this time, I pulled in. I bought a bottle of cabernet and set it on the seat next to me beside my camera. When I got back to the apartment, I took out my corkscrew and poured myself a glass. After all that time, sitting at meetings, crossing off the days of sobriety, it was gone that fast. After the bottle was empty, I stood in front of the mirror and studied my face to see if I looked any different. Maybe I did, but at the time, given the amount of alcohol I’d consumed combined with the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything all day, it would have been difficult for me to make a clear assessment of anything. I did an odd thing then, though it seemed to make sense at the time. Maybe I wanted to make a record of the moment, so I’d remember to never let it happen again.
