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generous and feel infinitely tolerant when I’m drunk.
    I smoke and drink another two cans as I talk to my father about the baby.
    My father listens. Tries to say something but I’m talking now. I know I’m talking too much, Dad, but I just wanted to explain how I’m so full of happiness and everything is working out, isn’t it? And I’m just calling to share my happiness.
    He says—
    Please, let me finish.
    I drink my last can.
    I talk more. And talk. Suddenly I share secrets with him, tell him that I never planned to be a mother but now that I am, I can’t think of a more wonderful experience.
    I tell him that I actually feel fulfilled for the first time in my life. And that I also feel a little cheated since I always thought myself to be above such basic biological determinants. I guess I always thought I’d be some kind of an academic or an artist and derive my satisfaction from that, I say to my dad. But like you—I boldly refer to a touchy topic: hisabandoning his own writing aspirations—I think I can be quite content just being a parent. Perhaps I’ll write later when the kid is older, right? I say, and my dad grunts something on the other end, something that I take as encouragement to talk more because I keep going.
    I’ve never said any of this to anyone, I tell him. I tell him I’m that I’m glad we have this kind of relationship, where we can just talk. I say that they’re really confusing sometimes, he is, not just him but Mom too. The whole family. But I love them no matter what. I love him. I love my baby. Because now there’s a new family member! Family is very important. Perhaps it’s the only thing that matters, I mull. Family. It’s great.
    He starts to speak—
    Oops, what time is it? I say.
    I’m done with my can.
    Once the last drop makes it out, I hang up.
    I get back on my bike. I pedal home. I’m slightly buzzed but not buzzed enough to sing out loud. So I sing in my head, letting the end fragments of songs spill out of me once in a while as I keep going.
    At home, my boyfriend says he’s forgiven me for the night before.
    What night before.
    We kiss.
    I hope the lemon smells strong enough to overpower the other, beery smell.
    He holds me even closer.
    Who cares what night before. I’m not going to ask.

    When we make love I hold on to him with all my strength—I’m full of gratitude for his forgiveness. This gratitude is genuine.
    I’m full of gratitude because I got away with whatever he has forgiven me for. I love him so much. I’m so happy.
    I’m so happy because I remember something. Although it’s not like I really forgot about it. I remember something that is waiting for me after we finish.
    He holds my head and says that I don’t seem to be entirely there, what’s distracting me?
    No, nothing, I assure him. I pull him even further into myself.
    I can’t come but the evening isn’t entirely lost yet.
    I tune in to his body reaching further inside mine, try to estimate how far from coming he is. I hold on to his ass. There’s a tension of muscles underneath the palms of my hands. Close. Closer.
    I say, Come on, come. Come for me.
    The tension gets even stronger.
    Come on.
    There’s still an almost full mickey hidden in a box in the basement.

HARM REDUCTION
    T here are lots of evenings when I go out on my bike with my pack of six beers. It’s never just six beers either. The amounts, they increase. They have to as my body gets used to alcohol and it makes more space for it. It makes more space for it because it doesn’t just want more of it—it needs more.
    A need implies that this, my drinking, is something that is necessary.
    Is it not necessary. Yet it is a need.
    What kind of a need is it, then?
    It’s not a physical one. At least not yet. My lacking this thing is not going to result in death, not even a serious withdrawal, probably no alcoholic seizure.
    This is a need that’s psychological—sustenance necessary to keep troubling thoughts away. The