Somewhere near the end, she decided that the drinking was the problem. So we stopped cold, both of us, in the middle of February. One of those winters where the sky looms over the town like a gray roof that never changes. Old ice and blackened snow in the gutters. It was maybe a mistake.
It was maybe a mistake, but she might have been right, too. I have since stopped drinking for reasons of my own. But back then it was a test— as everything was a test—of how much we would endure in order to stay together.
And sober we stayed for the rest of the winter. It was interesting, in a way. It was a departure for us, from the long evenings of drinking and laughing and fighting and…
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The New Yorker (Digital) - 1 Issue, Oct-06-14