ZAIJIAN HEWSON
I kept wondering why Acir had gotten that drunk.
The question had lodged itself at the back of my mind like a splinter ever since I’d found her slumped outside her apartment door, and it hadn’t let go all night. She wasn’t a woman who drank like that. At least not the Acir I knew. She could savor a glass of wine at dinner, laugh over a second one with friends, and still walk out into the cold with her spine straight and her wits intact.
Last night, she had barely been able to stand.
Now morning crept into my apartment on soft, pewter-colored feet. Acir sat curled on my sofa, swallowed by one of my gray sweaters, its sleeves bunched around her knuckles, her gaze fixed on a television. She looked better. Still tired, still embarrassed, but better.
I leaned against the ki
