The Moment of Truth

IT wasn't long after I had taken my last drink, when I was suffering the irritation that comes from being separated from a vice (you don't know whether you like it, or not), my wife said something that did not suit my fancy. I whirled, anxious to do battle, and snarled, "No wonder I used to get drunk, living with a sad sack like you." I topped this with a few other choice taunts and stalked off. I'd been getting away with this mental mayhem for years, and my dear wife was reduced to a state of abject slavery.