Sapphire
If ever there was a morning from hell, this is it. Seriously, I’m just waiting to see flames licking up the walls and the guy with the pitchfork and horns to show up.
I pick myself up off the living room floor where I’d fallen—because apparently, my own feet are trip hazards this morning.
My travel mug of coffee is empty, but the coffee now decorates my pristine cream-colored rug in a wonderful splatter pattern. Ugh, just wonderful.
“Maybe I’ll leave it and call it art,” I tell George.
It could work.
Abandoning the masterpiece for the time being, I go to drop the empty travel mug in the kitchen sink, fix my bun, which is now leaning precariously to the left, and hurry to the door. But I stop there and turn around, hand on the doorknob.
“All right, as you know, it’s a Monday
