043. Alcohol


"Whatever, thanks, Mom," with that Linda left the table and headed down the hallway to her room.

I looked at my glass, there wasn't very much Vodka left in there...hmmm...I hadn't drunk all that had I?

I looked at the end of the table at my husband, busy at work on...whatever it was he worked on. I couldn't remember.

"Would you like a dash of Vodka in your milk, Georgie?" I purred, or at least, that's what I meant to do.

"Huh?" George blinked at me from behind thick glasses, when did he start wearing those? I must be getting old, my memory was absolutely terrible these days.

Just to prove that, I couldn't remember what I'd asked him...

"What are you working on over there," I made a show of pouting, "you hardly had any dinner, I slaved over that."

He looked at me as if I was crazy, he'd been doing that a lot lately, I don't know why...it was a perfectly reasonable question.

"Sorry," he finally said then gestured at the pile of papers in front of him. "I need to finish this."

I sighed and took another swallow of Vodka, George had never been much of a conversationalist, but he could make an effort.

"So, Biff crashed our car, I hope he's at least paying for it." I figured this would get his attention.

George's head popped up and he gave me that uncomfortable look of his. I sighed again. "He's not paying for it, is he." I didn't even bother to make it a question.

George shrugged. "We've got insurance...and well...I did lend it to him."

I began tapping my fingernails against the table top. "I don't know why, it's not like he does anything for you."

George just shrugged again...that annoyed me so much...I used to think it was rather endearing, that he was so uncertain. But you'd think after thirty years he'd be certain of something. But no, that man had never stood up for anything or anyone his whole life.

"How exactly are you meant to get to work?" I asked. "It'll take days to fix that car."

"The bus," George mumbled.

And it would take him an hour longer to get to work too...but then it didn't really matter if he was home or not. He certainly never spoke to me.

I got to my feet, feeling rather unsteady...that happened a lot lately too, any caring husband would ask what was wrong. Not George though.

I reached out and picked up the cake I had worked hard over, all so Joey could do something stupid and get denied parole.

Nobody appreciated me, or what I did.

I picked up my glass and took another swig. I was beginning to sound like my mother, how pathetic.

Returning the cake to the fridge, I looked over at George again...not as pathetic as that I assured myself.

The Vodka bottle was still out, and there was hardly any left, I'm beginning to think David is sneaking it. Honestly, what was wrong with my children? Didn't they know drinking was bad for you?

Shaking my head I poured the last of the Vodka into my glass.


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