She knew she was drunk because she was going to put the milk in her tea before taking the tea bag out. It almost seemed like a good idea, giving the good satisfying twirl that evened the colour. Perhaps the fact that she could think she was drunk meant that she wasn't, but she knew her mind had gone past reasonable. She had done it because she was home alone and wanted something, what she wasn't sure, but she wanted it. Somehow the idea of drinking, of making her mind something else regardless of what it was, seemed nice. There was something about it, being in a mind that was full of airy fairyness, that was appealing, tantalising, something at least. It was obvious she wanted to forget.
It scared her though that thought, that this is what she was using to forget. She always looked down on people like that, despised them for their stupidity. But this was the only way she could think of forgetting, of just being something else.
It didn't matter though, she wasn't really drunk anyway because she didn't commit sacrilege by putting the milk in before taking the tea bag out.
There was of course something small there because she revelled in the deep gulps of warm liquid that slipped down her throat. She could still recall the days when she thought life was perfect; when she had a dream and was in love. But now her dream had fallen, and though she was still in love he was far away. She wasn't sure what she was doing in life, nor where she was going, nor anything. And she was drinking and was ashamed.
By now the night was cold, she had the heater on that had just been brought out from the garage. Autumn was only just dawning, it was about three weeks in and the lights were being turned on around five thirty which meant it was appropriate for the heater to be dragged out. It was slightly too warm but the effort to turn it off was too much and the idea of the room growing cold was daunting. It was in the end such an unrelated fact, of no consequence of all, and the only point it made was for a drunken point.
But she wasn't drunk, and she was sure of it and so really did any of it matter?
She never went on drinking, she was young, in the prime years of the partying era but she wasn't one of those people. It was one reason why she didn't have to queue up for free food at university. Any drinking was undertaken at home, with bottles bought at the liquor store up the road and done in minimalistic terms. It was only now, when she was alone, that she drunk for a reason other than taste.
She certainly wasn't afraid of being alone, the dark corners didn't scare her like they used to and she even enjoyed the times when the house was empty. But it was harder to get away from her mind when there was no one there to talk to. She wasn't even sure if the drinking helped but perhaps it was that she told herself it did.
Either way she threw another gulp of tea down her throat, questioned whether there was time for one more drink before bed and forgot all about the issues of her life. Perhaps it did work after all, or perhaps she'd only find them all still there in the morning, still having to be dealt with except with the added bonus of a headache.