On Tuesday I was so sick that I vomited.

Just a little bit of sick but a cascade of thundering wretches nonetheless.

I guess I’d already sent my meal southwards. I thought I’d eaten a lot, but, thinking about it, it had been a while.

There was something in the water, I think.

Grapes, probably. Old grapes that had been trodden on and left weeping until they liquefied.

Okay.

Wine.

Whine.

It’s Saturday and my intercostal muscles still ache.

Everything aches. And you’re not here.

Or, you’re not here, and everything aches.

I can’t tell.