7
Breakfast with Mangala
We’re not going to talk about Saturday. Let’s just pretend Saturday didn’t exist. Even though it did. The pounding in my head, the ferocious slamdance my eyeballs did in their sockets, the vomit I produced while on the phone with my dad because I wasn’t going to be able to come out to shuffle his boxes about.
Because he’s a nurse, he thinks I’m dying of a brain-eating amoeba, that vomiting and severe headache is likely caused by something awful and terrible and deadly.
“Death by peach schnapps, Dad. That’s all this is.”
“You’ve got to get yourself together, Hollie. Union jobs are hard to come by. If you’re not going back to school, you can’t blow it at 911. Wait until you get your full pension.”
“DAD, it’s Saturday. I have the day off.”
“Right. Still …”
The
