Pastry chef by day, insomniac writer by night.
Catch me here for spooky stories, crushable poems, and overall weird thoughts.
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John the Drunk is a Thief
After Tess's mother died, she lost herself for a while. She found this confusing because they did not like each other very much, and Tess had considered herself estranged for almost a decade. Nevertheless, upon becoming an orphan, her drinking consumed her. She slept fitfully and woke fretfully, heart rate high and hands shaky. She stopped showering and ignored phone calls. Her writing was at first slow and uninspired, then nonexistent. She and her editor made a mutual decision: Tess would take a leave of absence from the magazine, indeterminately long, and "get her shit together."
It's hot. The air is still and dead. A sour stink creeps up from the beach as seaweed crisps up on the stovetop sand. We sit on the porch, three of us shaded in Adirondack chairs, Stella sprawling in the sun on the steps. A pitcher of iced coffee sweats on the plant stand in the corner. Ice cubes clink and swirl in our glasses as we swig.