Passing Time

by Jennifer Happensack

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November 18, 2011

I tell my husband I think I may be an alcoholic. He looks at me cross-eyed, and asks half joking whether I’ve been drinking in the mornings. I say no, I just want to drink every evening. He says, “Oh, ok then, you’re fine.” I tell him I’m serious, I really want a glass of wine every night and I think maybe we drink too much. I remind him how my grandfather was an alcoholic. How I can still remember him snoring in his big easy chair, asleep after dinner every night in the middle of “Mod Squad.” I knew even as a child that somehow it was too early to sleep.

My husband says “Honey, you’re making such a big deal of this.” I tell him he’s probably right. I think I’m just bored because I’m way too much of a control freak to become an alcoholic. I don’t tell him this part. I don’t tell him that I have no idea what to do with my life so lately I just drink instead. I don’t tell him we have no children so I drink to make myself feel better. I save these gems for an explosion of emotions some other night.

I think to myself about my mother’s sketchy accounts of picking my grandfather up from the bar each night. I wonder why she did it. I wonder if she felt like she had some sense of duty, but more likely its just what they did then. No one asked any questions, it was the generation of silence. I wonder if she ever wanted to rebel and scream and throw herself onto her bed and cry. I wonder if she did. I realize these are things I will never know since I have no one to ask anymore.

It's Thursday and I’m making tacos. Having a glass of Sancerre and waiting for my husband to come home. I feel happy enough tonight.