I didn’t touch anything alcoholic last night, but I feel as bleary and wrong-footed as if I’d been guzzling shots for hours on end. Everything is off. The sheets are too hot. The duvet is too heavy. The light coming through the wrong gap in the curtains is hitting me square in the eye, and my bladder is screaming, and my stomach is doing slow, sickening revolutions, over and over, like a Ferris wheel that’s going to shear off its bolts and go tumbling over the countryside any second now, leaving havoc and heartbreak in its wake.
I lie very still and do my morning inventory.
Am I married to a monster? Yes.
Am I now in a secret partnership with a Russian assassin to murder said monster? Also yes.
It’s gonna be a hell of a year.
I ease one leg out from under the covers, then the other, t
