Ten.One Thousand, Five Hundred & Thirty-Seven
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“I threw up.” Of course, you did.
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With bleary eyes, I start to try to clean what I can see. I whimper every time my hand lands in a wet spot. I sprinkle baking soda over the top and hope that will sop up enough of the moisture overnight.
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Alone in the quiet.
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Perfect circle of a waffle. Melted butter. A light drizzle of maple syrup. Hot coffee. Candle. I eat alone on the sofa.
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I like Sundays in the cellar.
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I drop a siphon in the keg. Oh, dear.
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I think and think and think. This is the best thing about this job: I get to do a lot of thinking.
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Margaret’s quesadillas are a thing.
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I tell them that I combined all of their advice, and it seems to work.
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Maybe I can figure it out.