I fall asleep again, this time dreaming about nothing in particular. All that crazy BDSM stuff seems to have disappeared from my subconscious. For now, at any rate. I wake up the next morning, to face a groggy and hangovered Eric.
“Hey baby,” he says. “Could I have some water?”
I get out of bed and pour him chilled water from the fridge.
“Would you like a greasy breakfast?” I ask him.
He shakes his head, wincing from the pain of a headache as he gulps down the water.
“I have the perfect cure for your hangover, “I say as I pour a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar in another glass of water. “Drink,” I urge him as I hand over the terrible-tasting concoction. “Down the hatch, don’t think about the taste,” I say.
Eric shakes his head. “There’s only one cure for a hangover,” he says and pours himself a shot of scotch. I watch, my face filled with disapproval. Have I gotten involved with an alcoholic?
“You pilots sure drink a lot,” I say casually. He doesn’t respond. I toss back the concoction he has rejected and immediately begin to feel its effects. It contains the mother of vinegar which has a cobweb-like appearance that makes the vinegar look slightly congealed.
“That looks totally disgusting,” Eric says.
“It looks bad and tastes bad but trust me, it is elixir,” I tell him. “It helps the liver break down alcohol faster. Plus it increases deficient minerals such as potassium, calcium, magnesium, sodium and iron.”
As I get the rush that the health drink produces, Eric gets a different rush from the hair of the dog. Who drinks at 7am? Alcoholics these days are a dime a dozen and the last thing I want is to get into a relationship with one. Sure, it starts off as fun. They are always down for whatever. Always available for some fun. But then the madness sets in. The calls at 4am. The drunken rants. The unpaid bills and fights in the bar. The train wreck that is so sad to watch. You try and change them because you are told love is all they need. But that love drains you. Because they take, take, take and give nothing back. The disease makes them selfish. Impossible to deal with. You have to be a saint to date an alcoholic. I am no saint.
“Do you drink everyday?” I ask him.
“Doesn’t everybody?” he responds with a question of his own.
“Are you an alcoholic?” I ask, laughing to remove the sting from the question.
“If I was, would I say yes?” he asks.
Actually, if he had said yes I would be less worried.
“You are a pilot,” I say nervously.
“Relax. I don’t fly until 9pm. This will be long gone from my system by then,” he says as he takes another shot. “I just need to stabilise.”
What a Kenyan thing to say. I’m already feeling better about my decision to wait three months before sleeping with him. It’s only been a couple of days and the real Eric is emerging. An alcoholic? Or is this a one-off? I need to watch him closely.
“Well some of us need to get to work right now,” I say.
“I’ll drop you!” he offers. “No alcoblow in the day,” he says with a grin.
I take a shower and get dressed for work, thinking about his hot Audi. Ya, that’s not a shabby ride to be dropped off at work with. The girls will be so jealous. When I emerge from the bathroom, the level of the scotch has reduced further. He has taken some more. This is clearly his breakfast. He would rather knock that drink back then try and get lucky with me? I want to wait three months but I thought I’d have to beat him off with a stick. He barely even looked up when I had just a towel wrapped around me.
“OK, I’m ready,” I say.
We leave, remainder of the scotch tucked firmly under his arm.