Without falling off the edge.

Julie feigns happiness. By mouthing platitudes. But I can tell. By looking. At her face. In her eyes. She ain't happy. She grieves. And mourns.  About something. Or other. She still needs her fix. Her crutch. Red wine. She keeps a stash. Hidden. Indoors. And maybe even outdoors. Something to fall back on. In stressful and crisis times. And she lies about her addiction. To others. But even worse, to herself. Oh, she talks about quitting. With a caveat. That she'll still be able to take a social drink. A way of telling herself. That she's really not a true alcoholic. That she can handle it all. When really, she can't even sip. Without falling off the edge. --Jim Broede