“I threw up.” Of course, you did.

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.

Alone in the quiet.

Perfect circle of a waffle. Melted butter. A light drizzle of maple syrup. Hot coffee. Candle. I eat alone on the sofa.

I like Sundays in the cellar.

I drop a siphon in the keg. Oh, dear.

I think and think and think. This is the best thing about this job: I get to do a lot of thinking.

Margaret’s quesadillas are a thing.

I tell them that I combined all of their advice, and it seems to work.

Maybe I can figure it out.