Late

My alarm radio had been singing for quite some time, though I was barely aware of it. “Oh my God!” I sat up and looked—eight-fifteen.

I hate being late to work!

This was exactly why I never drank on a weeknight. The room swam in circles as I reached for my cell and called Perry.

“I’m going to be late today. I woke up with a huge . . . headache. It’s probably a cold.” She’d never suspect I had a hangover.

“I’ll call with any messages, Ms. Robert.”

“Thanks, Perry.” The sunlight shining on my comforter hurt my head. I covered my eyes and went back to sleep.

Around ten in the morning I crawled out of bed, my stomach queasy and grumbling. I plodded to the kitchen and forced down a granola bar while making coffee. Advil too. Without turning the television on—the noise wouldn’t have helped—I sipped the hot brew to nurse my headache. While preparing for work, I tried to recall the conversation with Richard. What seemed clear to me was our evolving, growing relationship. I let that soak in