He walks in through the front door;
a slim jim in one hand,
a four pack of beer in the other.
He looks at the tv screen to see a blond teen crying.

"What are you watching?"
he says as he crosses the room.
"Intervention," she says from the couch,
with a cup of beer on the table in front of her.

"OOoohh," he says with sarcastic interest.
In a way, it makes sense.
"It makes me a better person . . . " she says quietly,
almost to herself.

But he heard her.
"Watching a tv show makes you a better person?
How the hell does that work?"
His words full of doubt.

"Well, because I've had two husbands who were addicted to drugs, an-"

"And you're not? Ha!
Alcohol's a drug too,
sweetheart."

"Yea, but . . . it's not like I get drunk every night."

"Denial," he says, as he makes his way to the fridge.
"That's the first stage," he exclaims, as he pulls a beer loose from its ring.

"You're one to talk!" she yells from the couch.

He says to himself,
"Yea, well; takes one to know one,"
as he walks out.