Ginger Ale

She treated alcohol with trepidation. To her, it was as slipperly as a snake as you tried to pin down what marked the transition from constructive and destructive. She would sit at the edges of a party cradling a solo cup filled with ginger ale and convincing herself that a drink was never worth the risk.

She'd grown up sucking wine bottle corks as a child, given to her by cultured parents so she could become accustomed to the fine wines of their lifestyle. She prefered red to white, finding the purple stains on the speckled cork more appetizing that the subtle white. She had her first taste of champagne aged 9.

Her family had slowly deteriorated due to alcoholism as she watched her father fall further and further off the wagon. She spent darkened nights tucked into closets hoping she wouldn't be found. curled up with Lord of The Rings. Her mother started sleeping in a different room. The drinking began at the time of a hobbit's second breakfast: after she had left for school but before anyone began making lunch. On weekends, she stayed up until dawn to ensure that she would be sleeping when he had his first drink. It was easier not to be watching.

She didn't drink in high school or into university; abstinence became her middle name. The word no was her familiar in her witchy ways of remaining on the outskirts of gatherings without ever getting sucked in. She sipped her ginger ale in anxious celibacy. She was always too afraid of tempation.