The number carved into the front of the silver coin seemed largely insignificant up close.
He flipped the coin to read the back before deciding to pick it up and actually hold it in his hand, its weight far greater than its physical mass.
“To thine own self be true,” he recited, tracing a finger over the same words etched along the perimeter of the shiny metal keepsake.
He’d never bothered to introduce himself. He couldn’t stand the sound of his own voice echoing the sentiment:
The rest of those sitting in the circle of chairs and sullen expressions would merely skip over him as he refused, and he was always exceedingly grateful that they didn’t push him to be cordial.
He was so very tired of being fucking cordial.
James clutched the 24-hour sobriety chip in his hand as if it would somehow give him the strength not to leave this meeting and head straight for a bar,
but its glisten only dulled with the sweat of his palm. He had that way about him - a way that dampened, tarnished, and ruined all that was good in whatever he touched.
He wasn’t really surprised when this silly symbol of his current effort suffered a similar fate.
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