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I wake to three text messages, two voicemails from my sponsor, and a text from Carla telling me to call her because she has good news. I let the phone lie, unplugged and running out of battery, on my night table as I drag myself out of bed.
The rank odor of putrefaction, of partially digested foodstuff and liquor, lingers. So, I find some all-purpose Lysol with bleach and scrub away the vomit. In the kitchen, when I withdraw the wet sponge from its stainless steel sink basin and ring out all it’s been holding onto, its smell assails my nostrils, but I refuse to get a clean, new one until I’ve wiped the leftover cocaine off the kitchen table, poured the remaining Patrón down the sink, and let the running water chase my bad decisions down the drain.
In front of the open fridge, I take
