My shoulders sagged and my legs formed a distinctive limp as I made my way to the front door. It had been one of those days. You know the ones, where everything that can go wrong does. I fumbled around in my large bag for my keys, and dropped them on the floor twice before I managed to fit the key into the lock and turn the knob. Before the door was even shut behind me, I kicked off my shoes, one of them hitting the wall and sliding to the floor, the other landing in the ficus next to the door. The arches of my feet ached as I steadied myself in my stocking feet. I dropped my bag and keys onto the hardwood and limped into the kitchen.
My stomach told me to find something to eat, but every other muscle in my body argued, and directed me to the liquor cabinet. I complied with the greater part of my body and extracted a glass and a bottle of scotch from the cabinet. I didn’t normally drink scotch, but that was what you see the working men and women in the movies drink after a hard day at the office. I filled the glass about a quarter full and drained it. God, it burned. I made a horrible face, one that I would disguise if anyone else were there, but I was all alone. I stared at the bottle. Did I dare? Oh, what the hell, I thought, and poured another quarter of a glass before putting the bottle away.
The refrigerator was empty, of course, save for a block of molding parmesan cheese, a few eggs, and some leftover shrimp salad that should have been thrown out two weeks ago. I picked up the phone and speed-dialed Continue reading
