Fridge door swings open. I shove aside the tomatoes, the grapefruits, the kombucha, the strawberries. There she is. I rip off the cap. Drum against the glass bottle, just for the fun of it.

My mistress. My wife. My soul. Sauvignon Blanc. My faithful companion.

I pour out a glass, all the way to the top. Leave no space open, exposed, vulnerable. A fuller glass means a longer drink. I have three a night, and each one needs to last.

Off to the little coffee table. I brush aside the credit card statements and gas bills, the rejected applications for writer and editor positions, full of platitudes like, “we had many competitive applications” and “best of luck.” I sweep aside clouds of dust. I purge my phone of voicemails from my father. I position the glass right in front of me.

But I can’t quite take a sip. My sister’s thin oval face rises to mind; her husky voice hangs over me, as I think of the last time we had lunch at Rodrigo’s Mexican Cafe.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” she said. “I don’t want you to kill yourself, honey. That bottle isn’t your friend.”

“I’m just having fun,” I’d replied.

“People die having fun,” she said, her voice cracking.

“I’ll stop. It’s just a temporary thing.”

And I thought it was. Everyone drank.

My father told me to keep my problems to myself. Every problem has a solution. Work harder, drink harder. Don’t complain. Truth telling is weakness. He spouted these words over their own glasses of Merlot, swigged with ease, while my mother gulped down White Russians with more enthusiasm than the Dude.

“Image is everything, my boy,” he’d said with a harsh laugh, a laugh that reminded me of a drunk goose. “And a good man drinks. Always. Drinking is power. It’s not just enough that you drink; it’s what you drink too.”

But Nan always says, “you can talk to me. Always.” I think of the way she said that, her arm on my shoulder, the scent of her lavender perfume, mixed with gas and cigarettes. I think of how she said it even when my temper rose like a wave, when I told her to fuck off, mind her own business. I think of the past, the way she helped me with homework, went to parents’ night at school, even moved to the same town where I went to grad school.

I raise the glass again. Maybe I’ll just have this one glass. Just enough to feel relaxed, to feel the possibility of something, to drag out the night. There’s always tomorrow; there’s always a tomorrow to fill out more applications, to get rejected, to bullshit the credit card companies.

Then I think of Dad again, all the times he said, “you have potential, but…” There’s that word, a blockade to full praise. I tried to freelance, I worked for his real estate company, but he called me “Einstein’s retarded brother” when I tried to crunch numbers. I worked as baristas in coffee shops; I worked customer service in bookstores that smelled of furniture polish and coffee. I worked so many jobs as I sought to become someone, a Yates, a Fitzgerald, a Maxwell Perkins or Gordon Lish. I worked and the world ate my money like termites.

I take a sip. It’s sour. Sourer than usual. Normally I like that combination of sourness and fruitiness.

I take another.

Nan rises to me again. I see bags around her sea-blue eyes. I see a woman who called her brother, “smart, lovable, sweet, the most wonderful little brother.” I hear the tenderness in her smoke-filled voice, and the gravel bite in my father’s.

I take another sip. It’s the sourest of them all.

I raise the glass. Perhaps I should just pour this out. Pour every ounce of this sticky poison over the table. Smash the hell out of my bottle. Go see my father and drain out every ounce of his fucking Merlot. Go watch as this history trickles into the floor, leaving new space to fill.

But how can I give this up? I wait for five o’clock every day. I savor the good, sweet New Zealand wine. I smile every night with my Sauvignon Blanc. Without it, I slouch across spaces; I can’t decide which task I need to do first. Pay the credit card? Or focus on getting some groceries?

How long has it been since I’ve been sober? I can’t remember.

I raise the glass again, then lower it. I raise it one last time, as Nan’s voice and my father’s mingle: “Proud, retarded Einstein, weak, sweet.”

All I can say is, “I’m sorry, Nan,” the glass still perched in the air, in a dust-filled purgatory.