Forty-eight dark bottles stand on the long counter, proudly displaying the labels that showcase the expensive burgundy liquid they contain. I regard them as they stare back at me in silence, not needing to say anything as the cursive font of Italian words and old dates speak for them.
I try to recall the last time I had wine—or anything stronger than a cup of coffee.
It’s been years since I’ve had a real drink. Probably not since my twenty-first birthday, and even then I only downed a few shots before I completely spiraled into a drunken stupor.
Not my proudest moment.
I’ve tried to hold my liquor on every single occasion I’ve made the mistake of having any but it’s no use. I’m a hopeless lightweight. I just don’t get along with alcohol—or maybe alcohol doesn’t get along with me, I don’t know. Plus, it just makes me feel really weird. And strangely horny—which really isn’t fun unless you have someone other than your drunken, incapacitated self to take care of said horniness for you. I think it was that night I realized girls can have “blue balls”, too.
Not quite the vision I had to ending my first night as a legal drinker.