She put her
dish in the sink and pulled a clean champagne glass down from the
shelf and snatched a bottle from the refrigerator. By two in the
afternoon she was drunk in bed, and crying. She could not bring
herself to call Jean-Pierre as she had promised, could not bring
herself to dial the number she had by now committed to memory.
She could only cry and doze, cry and doze, all through the
afternoon. Once more, when it was dark outside, she ventured
downstairs for something to eat. She found lasagna in the
freezer, which she reheated in the microwave. Afterwards she
washed down three Extra Strength Tylenol with champagne from the
second bottle she opened. Retreating once more to her bed, she
pulled the shades on her windows and climbed under the covers.
She had slept through most of Sunday night in drunken illness,
and except for using the toilet and descending to the kitchen,
had been in bed from Saturday night until now, early Monday
evening. She wondered if she should get out of bed, or just go
through the night again. Marie had knocked cautiously on her
bedroom door earlier in the day, asking her if she was feeling
ill. She had told her yes, and told her not to make dinner, that
she would find something in the freezer.
She felt exhausted from thinking and dreaming and worrying about
her predicament, which only seemed to tighten its hold on her
heart.
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