Prediluvian

He hid gallons in the garage. Fifths in the basement.  Pints in the toilet tanks and under car seats. Half-pints were sequestered away in the forgotten shadows at work. Airline sized bottle he kept on his person at all times.

But he wasn't drinking.  Why would he? He'd been cured. He bought the cure at a treatment center where they taught him yoga and poked his wrists with acupuncture. The cure worked.  He was better. Now he could get back to normal and drink in peace.

The red and blue light reflected off the bottle he held to his lips.  He recognized the officer instantly. He had been through this twice before, on other lonely nights while driving no where, drinking from bottles he kept in his car.

The handcuffs were tight and he could not wipe the tears or snot from his face.

Calls from jail went unanswered. Loved ones let him sit, so they they could heal. Two days became more, until weeks passed.  Shared toilets took the place of acupuncture. Bagged bologna sandwiches replaced the gourmet buffet. Bars of steel and iron doors, locked from the outside kept him caged.

He ate the sandwiches and longed for the day he would reunite with his loved one. Back to the garage and toilet tanks of his life.