With A Twist

Everyone in the office turned and stared. There it was; my secret smashed into tiny pieces all over the bleak blue and grey carpeted floor, that greets me every Monday morning after a long weekend of heavy drinking.
My vodka was, is my comfort blanket; like a child sucks their thumb or holds a teddy, I drink vodka. I don't just have a glass with coke once a week, I have it everyday, not just with coke, but with lemonade, lime, straight, Martini and even with my weetabix. It takes away the harsh realities of being enclosed within the office walls, and, well that's it... There are many reasons why I drink i.e. celebrate - have a drink, commiserate - have a drink, news of a birth - pour a drink, news of a death (no need to know them) - have another drink and generally acknowledging any day of the week with 'y' in it.

My heart begins to pound, not suddenly but steadily, this isn't the first time I've had a close call. I feel the blood turning my face crimson, akin to a bloody Mary freshly poured and garnished with a crisp stick of celery (with a hint of tobasco) and my hands form a slightly sticky layer of sweat that forces me to wipe them down my pin-stripped trousers, that were already becoming uncomfortable as the panic swept over my body. "Nick, what is this, why is this here?" asked my boss, Lara, picking her glance up from the smashed bottle of vodka and piercing her crystal blue eyes right through me, as if she could see my thirst that could only be quenched by vodka with a twist over ice. The only sane thing to do is to lie my way out of this, "Just a present I got from a client this morning". My squeaky on edge voice vibrated the cold room and quickly filled it with tension, suddenly I became more aware of the sober eyes watching me as I scanned the room hoping to find some comfort in a friendly face; I definitely didn't. I have always found just merely talking becomes one huge exam when you and others around are sober, especially in this office. You suddenly have to think about what is coming out of your mouth and not what next beverage you are going to put in.

God, I need a drink. But Lara is holding my gaze as if she is waiting for some sort of 'explanation', who does she think she is? Okay, she pays my wages; she's not my keeper. The only way I can escape this moment of hell is to leave, I know once I have achieved that I can go to MiMi's, my safehaven. The next thing I know I turn to leave and push myself through the double doors, Lara's voice follows me "You can't keep running Nick, you need help'.

The cold London November air fills my lungs and makes me lose my breath for a moment, in a way this is comforting as I know I am free from the silent accusations. Why does she even care about how much I drink or how late my nights out are? I certainly couldn't care less about her personal life, I have enough problems to deal with - bills, relationships and family (who by the way, all say the same bloody things!). I turn up to work every morning, and yes I may still have the smell of alcohol seeping from my pores (that's what aftershave and mints are for), and yes I may wear the same suit three days in a row due to my early morning returns to my flat... But I still deliver the goods.

I turn the corner and my journey is nearly over. I can see the sign for my second home, and peace is beginning to slowly usher out the anger that had been building since I arrived at 8:30 this morning. I made the right decision leaving and the office is becoming a sour distant memory. After the day I've had, having to deal with idiots poking their noses into my business, I deserve this.

Scotch and coke - no, too early; martini - too light; beer - too heavy. Vodka and tonic - perfect.