The phrase is high-functioning alcoholic. Smooth and ordered on the outside; roiling and chaotic and desperately secretive underneath, but not noticeably so, never noticeably so. I remember sitting down in my cubicle that morning, my leg propped up on a chair, and thinking: I wonder if she knows. I wonder if anyone can tell by looking at me that something is wrong. I used to wonder that a lot, that last year or two of drinking—Something is different about me, I’d think, sitting in an editorial meeting and looking around at everyone else, at their clear eyes and well-rested expressions. Can
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