I was thirsty. I loved the way alcohol made me feel, so I drank a lot of it. I drank quickly, as much as I could. It didn't matter what day or what night. I could never have enough until I had too much.

Every Thursday at work, a drink cart would come around. One week the drink was Death in the Afternoon, a favorite of Hemingway's. I skipped lunch or didn't eat much. And dinner was Death and I had more than my share.

Somehow I stumbled onto the bus. I don't know how but I must have stayed awake. Or maybe I just woke up in time to realize that I got on the bus that drops you at the top of the hill. I'm just lucky I was going the right direction. I stumbled off and ran down the hill. What was the rush? I don't know.

I fell over myself many times, and then I woke up. It had become Friday. I was cut up and alone. I'd rolled down the hill and into my own bed. But the person I shared it with wasn't in it. She slept in the other room.

I walked the dog first thing. It was early. I was out of there as soon as I was awake because I couldn't face her. Facing her meant shame and reality and the possibility that it would be over for good.

There was finality. But not with her. For the next month, I lived in the other room.  I committed to quitting. I got sober. We moved in again, moved on and got married.

So much alcohol has come across my face since. So many offers, toasts, invitations and shots. Beers and bottles of wine. Desire for it, however, has turned into something else. Now, I don't want to drink alcohol. I'm not thirsty anymore.