Cleopatra and Frankenstein

by Coco Mellors

The truth was, he had no more idea why he drank than why his heart pumped blood or his lungs absorbed oxygen. It just happened.

“Hair looks great,” says the lady in line for coffee ahead of me into her phone. “But generally, I’m falling apart.”

“You’re not a bad man, Frank,” I say. “You’re just drunk.” “Same thing,” he says, falling backward across the seats.

What she heard from Jiro was this: the taste of loneliness is a glass of chardonnay and a turkey club sandwich at an airport bar.

“God is not always just,” she says. “But he does have a sense of humor.”