It would be easy. No one would know, or care.
I could walk into the kitchen and open the bottle in the fridge. Is it a pinot grigio? Or a chablis? No matter. I’ll get my favorite glass, a few ice cubes, and give myself a pour that passes for modest.
The oncologist recommends against it. My father’s alcoholism recommends against it. A college friend, who left me a drunk and rambling voicemail, recommends against it.
My face burns, thinking about it. My mouth waters.
I do walk into the kitchen. I fill the kettle, and set it to boil.