She feels the tequila in her blood, her veins. Her lungs fill with air, and again. The room is noisy, the seat hard. She is hungry, tired, sore, tipsy, self-sufficient, pretty, bruised, young, intelligent, unhappy, thirsty from salty goldfish, cognizant that that’s the idea. She can get water. She has an apartment, a gynecologist, mail, cookies, and the means to bake or buy more. There is a government agency that makes sure that the cookies she buys will not harm her, and it works, she trusts in that.
