I wasn't going to at first, but I felt so lousy that I figured why not.
It couldn't make things any worse, and it might possibly dull the feeling that I was watching myself through eyes that didn't understand what I was doing.
She got me drunk. I remember the first drink, and getting into bed, and her slipping in beside me with the bottle in her hand.
And that was all until this afternoon when I got up with a hangover.
She was still asleep, face to the wall, her pillow bunched up under her neck.
On the night table beside the ash tray overflowing with crushed butts stood the empty bottle,
but the last thing I remembered before the curtain came down was watching myself take the second drink.
She stretched and rolled toward me—nude. I moved back and fell out of bed. I grabbed a blanket to wrap around myself.
"Hi," she yawned. "You know what I want to do one of these days?" "What?"
"Paint you in the nude. Like Michelangelo's 'David.' You'd be beautiful. You okay?"
I nodded. "Except for a headache. Did I—uh—drink too much last night?"
She laughed and propped herself up on one elbow. "You were loaded.
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