“Nah shure wha happen-dah. Eeh waz fine, then, kaput.”
Dr. Williamson’s latest operation hadn’t gone well.
She was at home, alone, talking to her double in the bathroom mirror. She’d thought a shower, to wash off the day, would help. A short trip to the liquor cabinet before hitting the shower had turned into a very long visit, opening bottle after bottle, swigging back spirits, trying to find the one she wanted to drain. Tequila. Definitely tequila.
She didn’t get the toilet lid open before she was violently sick. She collapsed in waves of tears and vomited alcohol.
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