“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I almost did it,” he said absently, twisting his hands together.
“Did what?”
“Stopped at a bar.”
I said nothing.
“If there was ever a time in my life when I needed something…some chemical assistance…Jesus, what a day!”
“Pretty bad, eh?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he said.
“I’m sorry. Can I get you something? Make you some coffee?”
“You could kiss me and tell me not to be a fucking idiot.”
I kissed him.
“You’re not an idiot,” I said softly.
“I actually pulled into the parking lot at Odessa.”
“But you didn’t go in?”
“No.”
“Maybe you should call your sponsor?”
“I already did. I don’t want a drink—I’m not an alcoholic. I’m a drug addict. But Jesus! I feel like I’m coming unglued. And I knew if I had a drink, I wouldn’t want to stop there, because that’s just not going to cut it.”
“I could run you a hot bath, let you have a soak while I give you a blow job or something. Would that help relax you?”