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by Alexandra Caldwell
Tuesday, March 30
I sit up entirely too straight on T's futon couch in her apartment as I balance my plate of dinner in my lap. I can feel the springs in the futon underneath my skin, trying to push through the fabric and into me. The sensation complements my nerves, boring their way through me.
In my backpack lying next to the futon is my drawing notebook with the picture I had drawn last night of a woman curled up, hair falling over her face, a crying vodka bottle tipped towards her. A hand reaches out to her, but will she take it?
Stuffed inside the book are the notes I've written out to help remind me what I want to say. Next to those is information that I've printed out on Alcoholic's Anonymous.
I'm so scared.
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