The first drink was yesterday.
The second is still here.
It follows me into the office.
Not enough to make mistakes.
Not enough for anyone to notice.
Just enough to put a thin curtain between me and the world.
Someone asks me a question.
The answer sounds correct.
A minute later I can no longer remember what the question was.
The morning passes slowly,
Like a dog sleeping in another room.
On the train people talk into their phones.
A man is angry about a contract.
A woman is explaining something to her mother.
A teenager laughs at a screen.
None of it feels important.
Everything feels strangely beautiful.
I watch them through the window
as if they belong to another country.
There is a little fog in front of my eyes.
Just enough to make the sharp corners disappear.
At the kiosk I buy cigarettes I do not need.
The man behind the counter knows my face.
Neither of us will remember them tomorrow.
Outside, the afternoon stretches itself.
Dogs pull their owners down the pavement.
Everyone seems to be going somewhere.
I am also going somewhere.
I just don’t feel any urgency about it.
That is one of the gifts of alcohol.
Just the temporary absence of urgency.
We talk about people we both dislike.
The conversation circles around itself for twenty minutes.
although nothing has changed.
The bars begin filling with people who have survived another day.
My head feels packed with cotton.
My thoughts move slowly enough that I can actually watch them.
The world is still the world.
Tomorrow is waiting patiently around the corner.
But tonight everything is covered by a thin layer of warm dust.
Nothing shines very brightly.
Everything simply continues.
And for a few hours that is enough.
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