Plummeting into bed that night, now she feels like a martini without its glass, a sloppy puddle of poison. The next morning she’s so hungover she has to sit on the bathtub rim while she’s brushing her teeth. Her morning dump is like a multistage rocket launch, so loud and fervid and aerosol that to psychically recover afterward she takes a fifteen-minute shower and buys some white linen sheets online.
