So Ricky heats up one of those frozen family-sized dinners I have in the freezer, this one fettuccine and chicken and broccoli all covered in a white creamy sauce that makes my stomach churn to smell it. I twirl my fork in the noodles halfheartedly and wash each bite down with a healthy swig of whiskey. I’m going to get drunk tonight. I have already decided this. I’ll start back up on that rest of my life thing tomorrow.
“You doing okay?” Ricky asks. I don’t think I’ve said a word to him since he threatened to shoot a hole through my door. What’s this world coming to, anyway? Can’t we all just die and get it over with already? “Allan?”
“Fine,” I tell him. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll start to believe it myself. I’m doing fine.
With a frown Ricky says, “You don’t sound fine.”
I shrug.
