I get up and stagger my way into the kitchen. Now would be the perfect time to have one of those coffee machines that starts brewing at a preset time, but that’s a lu
xury for a different morning.
There’s a bottle of ibuprofen on one of the shelves in the cupboard, but I’m not ready for the physical effort it’s going to take to reach for it just yet.
For now, I remove the old filter from the coffee maker and replace it with a new one. I don’t bother measuring the grounds I put in the filter.
It’s a minute before I realize that a coffee maker requires water.
I open the cupboard and grab the ibuprofen.
There’s a stir in my bedroom, and I have wild and wondrous fantasies of Leila coming out here and offering to make the coffee while I’m allowed to lie down on the couch, but it doesn’t happen that way.
As it happens, Leila comes out of the room, her hair beautifully messy and her eyes hardly more open than my own.
“Morning,” she says, and plops down on the couch.
The television is on a moment later, and I’m left with this herculean task to conquer alone.
Somehow, I manage to put all the ingredients in all the right places and get the pot of coffee going, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to do much else if I can’t rein this fucking hangover in a bit.
There’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer, but I have a feeling Leila’s not going to be particularly understanding of my situation. The last thing I clearly remember is the icy shower she dumped me into.
Things must have worked out all right, though. Last night was the first night she slept in my room.
“Hungry?” I ask her.
“Meh,” she answers. I know that’s a clear signal one way or another, but I left my decoder ring in my other pants.
“How about waffles?” I ask.
It’s the perfect crime: I get to take a few swigs of vodka to dial back my hangover, and Leila’s pacified and distracted by waffles.
“Meh,” she answers again.
Oh well.
I open the freezer and grab the vodka bottle before I even dream of touching the waffles.
This is a covert operation.
If I took the waffles out first, she’d be bound to suspect that I was up to something when I didn’t immediately close the freezer.
The vodka is cold enough that I don’t taste it for a couple of seconds, just long enough for the worst of it to pass.
I leave the bottle on the countertop. There’s no reason to put it back before I’m done with the waffles.
“Butter? Syrup?” I ask.
“I’m not that hungry,” she says.
Myself, I’m fairly certain that if I were to try and eat something right now, I’d just refund it a few minutes later.
“Okay.”
The coffee’s done, but I take another swig of vodka before I bother doing anything with that information.
“Hair of the dog?” Leila asks.