BooksBarbecue
Back Life Events
Chapters (49)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1.
  6. 2.
  7. 3.
  8. 4.
  9. 5.
  10. 6.
  11. 7.
  12. 8.
  13. 9.
  14. 10.
  15. 11.
  16. 12.
  17. 13.
  18. 14.
  19. 15.
  20. 16.
  21. 17.
  22. 18.
  23. 19.
  24. 20.
  25. 21.
  26. 22.
  27. 23.
  28. 24.
  29. 25.
  30. 26.
  31. 27.
  32. 28.
  33. 29.
  34. 30.
  35. 31.
  36. 32.
  37. 33.
  38. 34.
  39. 35.
  40. 36.
  41. 37.
  42. 38.
  43. 39.
  44. 40.
  45. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  46. Also by Karolina Waclawiak
  47. Praise for Life Events
  48. A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  49. Newsletter Sign-up

I stared at the few words I had sent and knew they were all wrong. I was generally inept at drawing out conversation. I wanted to send paragraphs, but didn’t want to seem effusive. I questioned how many exclamation points I had sent. When I looked at them now, three felt entirely unnecessary. I imagined him saying “yah ok” with a cool indifference. But it felt meaningful that he was worried he had done something wrong and came looking to me for guidance. He didn’t seem like a person who looked to people for advice. Certainly not women. He seemed like a person who made decisions without second-guessing himself. I decided it had been vulnerable of him to text me. It showed he had been thinking about me even after I left. I wanted to text him back, ask him what he was doing. But I couldn’t figure out a way to re-engage, so I just sat staring at our messages.

In the morning, when I woke up, bright morning light flooded through my windows as I walked from room to room. The remnants of my night were lined up along the sink: a lowball glass with withered rinds of citrus, an empty wine bottle, a wineglass fogged with greasy fingerprints, one dirty dish. A headache was already flooding my forehead from temple to temple. I took the wine bottle to the grocery bag that held my recycling and stared at the empties in it—an empty gin bottle, empty wine bottles for each day of the week, and a scattering of empty food containers—and dropped the new empty in with a clink. I reminded myself that I needed to be more efficient about throwing away my recycling, so it didn’t look so desperate in there. I could smell alcohol oozing out of my pores. I hadn’t felt this bad in a while. My hangovers had always been manageable—I knew just how far to go—but it had just been one of those nights when I didn’t have an off switch.

As I walked around, I saw that I had left my windows open and my front door unlocked. I hadn’t blacked out, but I wasn’t used to being so careless, and the fact that I hadn’t closed the windows and locked the door before I fell asleep worried me.