“He switches on the bedside lamp. Sits shivering in the dark on the edge of the bed in a flickering light. 1:30. They always end this way, his ritual Saturday-night binges – with a violent onset of consciousness, booze-dehydrated, in the grip of tyrannous thought. With longing, head in hands, Conte groans as involuntary memory retrieves Catherine Cruz’s towel pressed softly to his face, but its seductive fragrance is lost – he needs it back now – the Cruz bouquet beyond memory’s grasp. They too ...were lost? Emily and Rosalind? They were dead? He wants to press Catherine Cruz softly to his face. Shuffles in slippers and robe to the kitchen where he swallows in one long pull a tall, cold glass of orange juice, eats a handful of potato chips, puts on the coffee, then returns to the refrigerator and stares in, looking for something. Lasagna, three days old. Nausea surges up into his throat. Strides off to the bathroom, removes his robe, quickly tossing it to the floor behind him, and kneels vomiting hard into the toilet – substantial heaves concluding with indescribable shapes bobbing afloat in the darkened water.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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