“You’re being very analytical about this.”

“I think I’m having an out-of-body experience. I’m not me right now. Nadia Bell is out to lunch. Somewhere out in space. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what life is anymore.”

“You know a lawyer came by yesterday morning?”

“A lawyer? What? When?”

“There was a scheduled reading of the will, and I guess you missed it.”

“The will?”

“Adr—”

“Don’t say his fucking name!” It was an explosion, like she’d stepped on a landmine. “Do fucking not say his name.”

She pales. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Jesus.”

I swallow hard. “No, I—I’m sorry. See? That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Here. Drink this.”

“Vodka. Thank fuck.”

“I told him you’d call him, or I would, when you were ready.”

“Okay.” Burning, burning, burning behind my eyes, in my brain, in my chest, where my heart used to be. “I’m sorry, Tess.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I am, though.”

“Okay, here, how about this. I forgive you, in advance, for anything and everything you may say or do.”

“More,” I say, shaking my glass at her.

“Fine, you lush. But this is the last of the un-punch.”

“Good. I think I’m about pickled, by now.”

“Can you even stand up?”

“I dunno. Standing is dumb. Who needs to stand up anymore? I’m not a stand-up kinda gal.”

“Ohhhhh-kay. That answers that.”

“Can I just pee in the un-punch bowl?”

“The physics of that are problematic.”

“Shit.”

“Nads?”

“Yeah?”

“You really need a shower.”

“Just put me in the tub and leave me.”

“That’s not fucking funny, Nadia.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“It’d be best.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“He’d be angry.”

“Huh? Who would be angry?”

“He. He would be. Because I promised him I’d live. I promised him…that I wouldn’t just stay alive, but live. But I don’t want to, Tess.”

“Don’t want to what?”

“Live.” A bloody silence. “Not without…him.”

Fuck. Here it comes.

day unknown

People talk jokingly about having a breakdown, but unless they’ve really experienced it, they don’t know.

Imagine, or remember if you’re that unfortunate, crying so hard every bone rattles inside your skin. Crying so hard you wonder if you’ve gone literally blind, because the salt of the river of tears has seared away your eyes. Crying so hard your chest feels like it’s clamped in a white-hot vise.

Then multiply that by a thousand.

Crying so hard you can’t physically function. You can’t breathe. And when you do breathe, it’s a hoarse scream.

Screaming until your throat bleeds.

And it doesn’t end.

You’ve been expecting this for weeks.

Pent it up inside a vault of vodka and silence and denial.

Now, the interest is due on that grief.