On Trying Not To Drink

I'm not going to say that I'm some kind of lush. I've never spent money I didn't really have on a drink, nor have I ever hurt anyone physically while intoxicated. I've never had a DUI or been cited for being drunk in public. I'd say officially, I have a pretty clean slate. But I know that I can drink too much. And as long as I know; that's really all the convincing I require.

Like that time that me and D went to time square. It was one of those days that you wish would stretch on and last, but instead it rushed by so quickly. We decided not to spend it dodging tourists and bumping into people on the sidewalk. So we ducked into a pub and ordered some drinks to warm us up. I had a Vodka martini, dirty with my favorite, Grey Goose. I sipped it cordially as D called a friend to see if he wanted to meet us. Then we fell into flirtatious conversation and without even noticing; my drink was depleted. He automatically ordered me another. By the time our friend arrived I was on my third; this time because the bar tender offered to make me the best I'd ever had. I don't know if he was right, but it sure had more alcohol than the first two. This one I drank slower, and then realized that I had to use the restroom. I excused myself long before I actually started to toggle off of my stool. I straightened by blouse and smoothed down my jeans. Then glared at the obstacle ahead of me. I started towards the bathroom, which was inconveniently located across the large room, down a flight of stairs and around a long winding hallway. I made it to the staircase without embarrassment.

After relieving three glasses of Vodka and olive juice, I primped in the mirror. I still looked pretty hot, so maybe no one noticed how smashed I was. I wobbled back to the bar only managing to bump into an empty chair on the way. Here comes the bad part. So me and D decided to leave the bar, and part ways with the friend. D suggests instead of hiking it to the subway and making our way back to my Brooklyn apartment, we get a room in Times Square and enjoy ourselves. I think this is a marvelous idea, especially since I'd rather not walk the four blocks to the F train in my four inch calf high boots.

The next is a blur to me. I remember trying the W, but no they were out of rooms. I remember sauntering into the Marriott who had a room, only one left; a King suite which D accepted promptly and paid for. I remember getting into the elevator followed by Cynthia Nixon (Miranda on Sex and the City) and her wife. I remember being in awe and hoping that it was really her, because what a tease for it to just be some stranger who looked exactly like her. I remember getting so emotional that I'd seen her that I cried in front of the concierge, who handed me a tissue and a bottle of Evian. I remember going up to our room and struggling to take my booths off by the window. I recall a shower with D, although not clearly. And I recall waking up the next morning void of cloths.

I slid my hand over to D to see if he was clothed or not. Not. Which was rare, because even after we'd gotten busy in the past he always managed to put his shirt and boxer briefs back on while I remained glowing, nude and quite pleased with myself. The fact that his clothes were off told me that last night was a wild one. I walked over to the window and took in the view. Times Square was lit up against the morning sun, the streets were already busy with people rushing and dragging their children on leashes. I tried to remember the night. Tried to sample an image that I could hold onto after D left. After he was on his plane and back in California. But nothing. Not even a morsel of a memory brushed my mind. Flashes of images came, like being in the shower but only for a second. I looked around and tried to piece it together. My clothes were piled on the floor near the bed. His shirt was by the sofa, and our shoes were thrown about. The bed was a mess and there were two towels strewn across a chair by the desk. I started to nudge him, but I knew it would be another hour until he woke. So I took a picture of the room and of D sleeping and kissed his forehead.

When he woke he was disappointed to know that I didn't remember. A knowing grin spread across his face as if he was grateful that one of us remembered the night. A night that may surely be our last. I felt so ashamed that I'd let it slip through my fingers.

So since then, I've counted my drinks. Paid close attention to my consumption. I don't want to let another priceless memory disappear beneath an empty glass of wine or a shaker of vodka and ice. I'm far from being a lush indeed, and I'd like to keep it that way.