“Well, what the fuck do you want me to do about it?”
We stood in the bedroom, half-dressed for work. The bile soaked deeper into our crisp white comforter.
I don’t have time for this.
Pushing past him, I grabbed the pet stain remover and a roll of paper towels from the bathroom linen closet. I drenched the stain in thick, foamy cleaner and scrubbed until the paper towel fell apart. Still, the stain only went from obviously yellow to somewhat yellow.
I checked my Apple Watch: 5:52 AM — I’ve got to get going.
I pulled the dirty comforter from the bed, balled it up, and lugged it toward the laundry room, careful not to let it touch my face. As I stepped onto the cool laminate, tiny grains of cat litter stuck to the bottom of my feet. Little gray paw marks covered the floor.
Gross — but I’d worry about the litter after work.
I stuffed the king-sized comforter into the washer and tossed in two Tide pods. A capful of bleach went in, too.
I twisted the dial to “sanitize,” then set a four-hour delay on the cycle. The machine chimed twice, its jingle bright and cheery.
/
Three hours later, I sat at a red light a hundred miles from home and typed a quick message: “Be there in an hour.” It didn’t go through.
I tried again, this time holding the phone against the sunroof. The extra two inches didn’t help.
I tossed my phone aside and left-swiped the large touchscreen display. The GPS slid away, returning me to the home screen.
Instead of LTE, the upper left-hand corner still read SOS. I stared at it, as though I could bitch-face my way back to cell service.
A drawn-out saxophone riff wailed through the speakers — again — as Miss Carly Rae Jepsen launched into her fourth encore.
Minutes ago, I realized I had exactly one song downloaded to my phone: Run Away With Me.
At least it’s a banger. I turned the volume up and sang along — completely off-key.
Mid-bridge, I gave my once-iced, now-watered-down Americano a swirl and took a sip.
Motherfu — !
The canker sore inside my bottom lip seared with pain. Carefully, I shifted the straw to the other side of my mouth and tried caffeinating again.
/
The highway stretched out in front of me, rolling over the green hills. To my left, a large billboard stood against the cloudless blue sky, advertising the Buc-ee’s three miles ahead. Beside it, a second billboard spelled out a single word in five bold, black letters across a colorful, psychedelic backdrop — VAPES.
Good ol’ Tennessee.
The Buc-ee's sign zoomed by my window. I considered stopping for some Doritos and a Diet Coke but checked the GPS first.
Sixty-three miles to go. Nah, I can make it.
As I passed the Buc-ee’s exit, my Apple Watch dinged. Another work notification. Another thing to deal with tomorrow.
I didn’t even want to look at my Google Calendar.
I yawned and checked my ETA. It jumped from 5:07 to 5:17.
I fantasized about crawling back into bed for an afternoon nap.
Then I remembered the vomit-covered sheets waiting for me.
Lovely.