I grabbed her hand but she slipped through my fingers. Now she was laying in a heap on the ground making a snoring sound. Very funny. Watching my lovely mess of a wife get drunk every night has become something of a tragic comedy. On one hand, we have very passionate discussions (arguments) and the sex is intense. On the other, she ends most nights embracing the toilet bowl violently heaving and speaking in a barely intelligible language.
"It's not like you love me," she groans from under her arm that is covering her face (along with a clump of her hair).
"Right," I say. "Are we really going there tonight?"
"We are so very temporary and you just don't get it," she pauses. "I can see all of the stars."
"How about we get you off the ground and we head to car? Your getting your dress dirty and if people come along, they'll see your panties."
"Let them see my panties, Ed. Let them all see my panties," she spreads her legs so that her skirt is now up around her waist.
"Come on," I bend over and grab her arm. "Let's go home."
She would, more than likely, blame all of this on her parents, specifically her father whose alcohol addiction was passed on genetically. This was exacerbated by her mother leaving the family when she was ten and having her father as the sole role model in the household. She watched her father ruin his life and body by chugging an insane amount of whisky every day for as long as she could remember. His only rule being that he refused to drink alcohol before 5pm, as that constituted the workday. He held fast to this requirement long after he lost his job, which resulting in him drinking from 5:01pm through the night until 1 or 2 the next morning.
"I'm not going with you, Ed," she says to me. She has now pushed her self up into a clusmy Indian style pose. Her underwear are no longer visible to passersby. "I can't ever go with you again."
"Really? Why not?" I have heard this argument from her before, but something was different this time. It was something in the tenor of her voice and the vacancy in her eyes.
"Because this is all been destroyed. I mean, look at all of this dirt and grass and the violent blue sky above our heads," she stops and looks up at me, but she is really looking through me. "You just don't ever understand me, do you?"
We had tried an intervention once, several of her closest friends sat nervously in our living room waiting for her to arrive from her shift at the bar. We all carefully planned how we would tell her that we worried about her; about her problem. I figured she would wake up from her horrible dream and acknowledge that she was, in fact, abusing alcohol. She never came home that night. Her boss called me to say that he found her passed out in the supply closet at work.
"I understand you, Phoebe. But we need to go home and talk. You're drunk."
"I am not drunk, Ed," she hissed. "You always say that but you know that this is how I really feel. That I say these things because I want you to hear me. Instead, you ignore me and accuse me of being drunk. How easy for you, huh?"
- Sometimes you must force yourself