Two Drink Maximum

Yes, I know at some bars, restaurants, resorts, or events there is a two drink minimum. But for me, there’s a two drink maximum.

Let me explain it this way, in the context of a relationship I had that spanned the course of two years.

I first met her at a coffee shop near her apartment. We’d been texting off and on for about two months, and lately, it had been more on than off. So, we finally agreed to meet. She was, in fact, amazing. A light inside her so bright, so strong - the attraction between us was immediate and wonderful.

We had talked before about a trip together, about her coming along with me to a conference. So, the night after we met for the very first time, I was having a drink and texting her. As I sipped my second drink, she asked if the trip was still “a thing.” Just a few minutes later, I texted her an image of her ticket. She was thrilled, and I was smiling. In just a few weeks, we’d be away together. Alone. Celebrating the beginning of something. Special? I hoped so.

Before the trip, we had a lunch date. No drinks for me, not until I got home. Then, just one as we texted and enjoyed a breakdown of our time together and began to plan the events that would form the trip.

The trip comes. One night, she’s out with friends and I have a dinner meeting. I have two drinks. Then, we met up back at our hotel. We spend time at the bar, but I’m drinking diet coke. Then, we go up to our room and share some intimate moments. Everything is perfect, amazing, incredible, more wonderful than I can remember.

We get back to our town, our lives, our work. And meet for drinks. Just two. A lovely night. Another night, two drinks for me. A kiss I will never forget from her.

A night at her apartment, two drinks, pure bliss with her. Another night, two drinks. All is well.

Then, the night at her apartment. Well into my third drink I say something I shouldn’t have. Words I promised myself I wouldn’t say to her, not that night anyway. She seemed fine, but the night ended awkwardly.

I returned home, no text from her.

She was “processing” she told me the next day. Within a week, she’d be gone. Ghosted me. I replayed that last evening in my head down to the minute. Down to the words I said after I was well into a third drink. I could pinpoint pretty much the precise moment I’d said the words that pushed her away.

I didn’t know it would be nine months before I’d hear from her again, but I knew I’d said what I shouldn’t have, knew it was the third drink that pushed me over.

Nine months later, though, she was back. We finally met up again, had drinks. I was very careful to only have two. Then, we spent most of an evening on the roof of her building. Talking and laughing and sharing thoughts about our future - possibly a future together.

She hugged me as a left, nothing more. And the embrace was a reminder of how sweetly wonderful she was and is.

We’d see each other off and on for a few months, then she’d go away for a bit. One day, I wanted to come by and just see her. Of course, I didn’t tell her I was stopping by. I just went. I’d been drinking. Well more than two drinks. I knocked, she ignored it. I knocked again, she told me she couldn’t see me. I walked away, drove around the block, and came back. She told me I needed to leave.

A drunk guy on her front porch wasn’t what she wanted? Who knew? So, that was that. In a month, that memory was over and I was back in her house, back on her couch. We were talking and laughing and enjoying our moment together. Two drinks.

That would lead to June. A month spent together. Mostly, anyway. One day, I decided to start drinking early in the day. I was well into my fourth drink when I said it. And she lost it. Threw a fit. We made up, of course, but it took a few days.

There was the night at another conference, a bottle of wine shared and some more liquor, too. Way more than two drinks, and an argument at 3AM. Still, we were ok, I guess.

She came to visit me at the office and I had three drinks at lunch. I still don’t know what I said, but she just got up and left.

Fine.

We ended up together that weekend, and all was well. Of course, by the next Tuesday, I was back on her couch. I’d had a drink before I got there, and then two or three more and then she was asking me to leave, saying I was acting strange.

Defying all expectations, she went out with me again the following week. Drinking, of course. Into the fourth, she told me she had to go, told me she didn’t want to be with me like that.

Then came the few days of peace, of visiting her and having just one drink. Brilliant. We went to dinner later that month, a margarita. A second. And done. Nothing more, a beautiful night.

But on those nights in October, on that morning in November, on those days when I went past two, she let me know. Let me know that the drinking version of me wasn’t the me she wanted to see. Until she just told me no - not today, not ever.

With one drink, this incredibly serious mind loosens up. With two, he might buy you a plane ticket and take you away for a few days. But at three or more, it’s over. Nothing good happens after the first sip of the third drink.

I’m a two drink maximum guy.