Watches and Flights

I hate that he’s making me feel like a villain right now. I want to pretend this ginger didn’t sneak up on me in the shower, fuck me while I couldn’t see him, and came inside of me without a condom. And he’s the one acting like my behavior is unacceptable. He’s an animal.

Is it his Sponsee or the ginger who needs help? I never knew anyone who was so close to Relapse themselves who served as a Sponsor.

But that is just my experience.

Who knows how systems are formed?

And I certainly don’t want to accuse or hurt another Addict.

“AA” isn’t my thing though. I went as required when I was voluntarily in Rehab, but all it ever did was make me want to drink when I got home. It was not for me. There are like 3 women to 40 men, and for someone who doesn’t want to be around groups of men, “AA” triggered me in all kinds of ways. Still, I am not going to criticize anyone who works the program as the program works for them.

Also, though, it’s not my burden.

As I sit judging, though not criticizing, him for his involvement in “AA,” I peruse the ginger’s room some more. Again, I’m suddenly consumed by the number of watches he has. All I can think about is how many watches a person needs. If they are collector’s items, well, that’s just weird as fuck. I look over them carefully and decide to take one, and he can suck a dick about it if he even notices. I pick one up, thinking, “I dare you to notice let alone come at me later accusing me of taking it, you coward.”

Because non-cowards steal shit secretly.

The irony is not lost on me.

Still, I feel vindicated in the smallest of ways.

He took something he wanted when I wasn’t looking. Now it is my turn.

            After checking to make sure it isn’t engraved, I choose one I’d like to see a future boyfriend wear.

            Drunk Autumn is not proud of stealing. She’s also far enough gone that she isn’t sure she even takes anything. If there’s evidence in the morning, it certainly isn’t recovered by Autumn,

I go back into the living room where I had last seen the ginger and ask him if the Uber is ever going to arrive. He tells me it is on its way. Thank God. “God, please get me safely out of here.”

I wanted to be home.

I wanted my Mom.

I wanted her to tell me that good men don’t do things like what this ginger did to me and that our Alcoholism was just a random coincidence we have in common.

I wanted anyone to remind me that there are infinitely more Alcoholics out there than are willing or able to admit it, and I know it’s with good reason. We’re always judged. For all I know, this ginger’s anger stemmed from embarrassment more than anything else. I wish I could tell him I was also an Alcoholic and understand how hard sobriety is, but in my drunken state that feels cheap and hypocritical.

“He’s here,” the ginger tells me jolting me from my thoughts of lament.

I fly to the exit.

He escorts me out of the door to the top of the staircase, says, “have a good one,” which distracts and confuses me, and he pushes me forward.

I fall down two flights of stairs. 

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