swallow my doubt, turn it inside out [open]
Reese has taken a seat at one of the tables in the corner of the Luna Bar, cradling what, to the naked eye, appears to be vodka of some kind. (Actually, it's only water.)
She's berating herself for the lapse in recovery (because, to Reese, she's relapsing just by being in a bar), but honestly, the only way to deal with the messed-up quality of the situation she's in is to hit the bottle. Wait, correction. The way she used to deal.
She has to keep reminding herself of that, and when the cold water hits her throat, she can almost pretend it's the slow burn of alcohol.
(And an hour later of internal debating later, she's stopped pretending altogether.)
She's berating herself for the lapse in recovery (because, to Reese, she's relapsing just by being in a bar), but honestly, the only way to deal with the messed-up quality of the situation she's in is to hit the bottle. Wait, correction. The way she used to deal.
She has to keep reminding herself of that, and when the cold water hits her throat, she can almost pretend it's the slow burn of alcohol.
(And an hour later of internal debating later, she's stopped pretending altogether.)