I stop at the liquor store after work. All I can think about is getting home and pouring myself a big glass of wine. I want something to take the edge off my anxiety. I want something that makes me feel oblivious to the despair that is dogging me.
“So what’s going with the wine tonight?” the man at the checkout attempts some friendly conversation.
“I don’t know.”
“Really? Well what are you cooking?”
“I have no idea.”
“You don’t know what you’re making for dinner?” He looks at me blankly.
I wish I could tell him that I have no intention of eating. I just want to drink. That would be socially unacceptable of course, but it would end this pointless conversation. Who knows what they are having for dinner on a Tuesday night? Normal people?
“Are you watching the hockey game then?” He tries again.
I shake my head in disgust. The only thing worse than what I am planning to do this evening would be having to watch sports. I take my wine and leave.