Free Seeing Red by Shawn Sutherland Page A

bathroom, and a moment later she returns wearing the same black dress she wore the night before—albeit with her hair and make-up slightly askew. I squint my eyes, exhale, stretch out my arms and mumble, “Good morning.” How many times have I awoken to an awkward situation like this? I’ve been doing it for years and I never get any better at it. Never know what to do or what to say.
    â€œHey what’s with all the medication in your bathroom?” she asks. “Are you alright?”
    She opened the medicine cabinet. Great. I should really get a padlock for that. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just . . . I have trouble sleeping sometimes.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œDo you want some breakfast? I can make you bacon and eggs or something?”
    â€œNo, that’s okay. I’m allergic to eggs anyway.”
    â€œWell, I probably have some Corn Flakes or Lucky Charms around here. . . . They’ve got those marshmallows and shit—”
    â€œNo, really, I’m fine. I should probably get going.”
    For some reason I don’t want her to leave. Not yet. Not because I’m afraid I’ll miss her, but because I feel like I’ve done something wrong. “At least let me buy you breakfast? There’s a good place down the street from here.”
    She reluctantly accepts and I throw on some dirty clothes and we go.
    It’s ten o’clock in the morning and I’m sitting across from Melanie at a small table in a quiet diner. The radio in the background is barely audible over the sound of the wall clock and every tick of the second hand feels like an hour. Without alcohol, I realize, Melanie and I don’t have anything in common and there’s very little for us to talk about. I’m also unshaven, greasy-haired and probably smell like three different kinds of hard liquor.
    Our food finally arrives and we start eating. She ordered pancakes, sausages and whole-wheat toast while I got a bowl of fruit and a glass of water because my stomach is too queasy to digest anything more substantial.
    â€œHow’s the toast?” I ask her.
    â€œIt’s good,” she says, chewing quietly. “It’s good toast.”
    â€œHmm. That’s good to hear.”
    A few awkward seconds pass. I take a loud sip of water between mouthfuls and then glance down at her left hand and notice she’s not wearing her wedding ring. She takes another small bite of toast and says, “So, that roommate you mentioned . . . he doesn’t exist, right?”
    â€œWho? Tornado?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSo that was all your stuff? All the trash? The bottles?”
    â€œUh huh.”
    â€œI also noticed you had a class schedule on your fridge.”
    â€œHmm. That’s a pretty astute observation.”
    â€œYou’re still a student? You’re not really a journalist?”
    â€œNo. Not yet, anyway. These days, it’s kinda hard to, y’know, get your stuff out there and—”
    â€œAre you always this full of shit?”
    â€œWell . . .”
    â€œAnd do you work? Or just drink all day?”
    â€œI’m actually between jobs at the moment . . . but I do have somebody helping me with my résumé.”
    The waitress comes by to refill my water.
    â€œReally? You can’t eat any eggs?” I ask.
    â€œNo.”
    While chewing on a large piece of cantaloupe, I add, “You mean you’ve never had a really good omelette? With ham?”
    â€œOh God,” she gasps, dropping her fork onto the plate and covering her face in embarrassment. She’s obviously upset. It’s understandable: she cheated on her husband with a drunken, unemployed loser ten years younger than she is.
    â€œLook, I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t even know what happened last night. Honestly, it seems like every day I wake up and I can’t remember what I did the day before. It got so bad that,