13
The Morning AfterI DON'T REMEMBER much about last night, or how I made it upstairs to bed. But I can tell by the heaviness of my head, sour grape taste in my mouth, and abdominal distress, I had too much to drink. My eyeballs hurt with the rush of light, aggravating my pounding head. I close them quickly and lie unmoving; surprised I'm still dressed and entangled in clothing. I imagine falling into bed, too drunk to undress and dissolving into a deep-intoxicated coma. Now regretting my date with the bottle, I lie hungover trying to recall remnants of last night, displaced with alcohol-damaged brain cells.
Slowly, the night saunters into my memory—the conversation with Catrina, the photo of Senator Greg Murphy and his family. Had I spoken to someone on the phone? A vague memory of a ma
