I wake up around ten Sunday morning and drag myself downstairs. My head throbs, and my mouth is dry. For a few moments my brain can’t even manage a straight thought. I go to the fridge and open it to find very little inside. I get a glass and fill it with water from the sink, then sit on the couch.
My mom strolls out of her bedroom, looking hungover and groggy. She sits on the other couch and for a while says nothing.
Her hair is messy and her eyes are bloodshot and she looks like New Year’s Day.
Just like you probably do.
I wonder if this is what they call irony. I don’t know. I can’t stretch that word out long enough to grasp its meaning.
When Mom finally notices me, she looks puzzled. Her lips almost go to say something. Almost.
Then they close again, and she squints her eyes the way she does when she has a migraine.
Here we are, just the two of us.
“Hungry?” she eventually asks.
I nod.
Mom slowly gets up and heads into the kitchen.
Eventually I follow.