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Why do the forbidden things taste so good? Is it because we get to enjoy them seldom? Because the memory of the taste feels better than the original flavor? Or maybe because they don’t wear off as quickly as leather oxfords?

I’m asking myself these questions over and over again, trying to find an answer which would help me cure a few weaknesses in my character. Unfortunately, they’re all related to the capricious nature I was endowed with, which stubbornly functions according to an  annoying rule. And the rule is, ladies and gentlemen, the more I can’t have something, the more I want it.

Of course, I try to convince myself that things I can’t have are bad for me – and they are: either immoral, or illegal. However, what I can’t have (or shouldn’t do), still intrigues me enough to occupy a significant part of my mind. I daydream about it in my tedious job and later feel remorse.

I want to live up to my own standard of decency (which is pretty high), yet deep down, I know I'm not a righteous man. I'm a weakling who gives in rather easily to their desires, whether they’re carnal or gustatory ones.

*

I open the bathroom cabinet. It's 7 am, the dim glow of November sunlight falls in through the window. I don’t look outside; there’s nothing to see.

I reach for the tiny glass jar with shaving cream, and a  new blade. I prefer my face smooth. When I’m done shaving, I glance at myself in the old mirror. My eyes are colorless light blue, and my blonde hair looks like hay. I’m still young, in my late twenties, but I don’t look that healthy or well. I take a deep breath, as if it could help. The morning air tastes cold, almost metallic.

I pick fresh clothes hanging on the hook. It’s a white shirt, a jersey vest and matching ash grey pants. I can't help but notice I've lost weight again... It's stress.

I walk out and go to the kitchen. My sister Doris is ironing her Sunday dress. She's undoubtedly preparing to go to church. She's a strict Protestant, and a fanatic belonging to the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. Together with women from different generations, she fiercely reinforces the Prohibition.

*

The day on which I saw the “U.S. IS VOTED DRY” headline in the newspaper will haunt me forever. It was an ugly January day, two years after the end of the World War. When the Volstead Act was passed, we’ve all thought that it was a joke. But it wasn’t. I wondered how we would cope without alcohol, our social lubricant. Yet, time kept passing, people found new ways to drink, and somehow, the life went on.

I persuaded Doris to stop expecting everyone would follow her strict views on alcohol restriction. I tried in different ways, but she just couldn't accept the fact people would lose to their addictions... and desires.