Last night I was struck by a story. I've been trying to develop a particular idea for a while now, but it just didn't have substance and I had been letting it simmer. And then, twenty minutes after the sleeping pills should have kicked in, the idea finally clicked. I was totally foggy so I grabbed my phone, activated the notes app, and turned on voice recognition. I dictated the opening couple of paragraphs, and collapsed back into bed, very pleased with myself. Without hitting save. 

Great! So... let's see if we can re-create a little of that midnight magic. 

My hands trembled as I stared at the black label and the cool amber fire within. I should never have come in here, obviously, but I'd been sober for almost two weeks, and the thirst was pressing in on me. Nothing else could quench it. Nothing else existed except this wall of bottles before me and the need. I clenched my hands into fists, not quite ready to give in to the inevitable--playing with anticipation, maybe--and noticed in some dim corner of my mind that someone had stopped at the end of my aisle. 


A quick glance told me that he was hot and that he seemed to be staring, but I didn't take the time to examine him. My eyes were drawn back the Jack like iron filings to a magnet and I breathed as deeply as I could make myself. I could feel the siren song of the booze as it crept beneath my edges and between my cracks, eating away at the pathetic foundation of my sobriety. 


I had almost begun to reach for the bottle when the man, who I'd already forgotten was there, shifted. I shot him a dirty glance, wishing he'd take his penetrating stare elsewhere so I could get on with my communion, but he set down the bottle of wine he was carrying, instead, and stepped forward slowly like I was some fucking stray dog. "Are you okay?"