You close the e-mail window and shut down the laptop. Your hand rests on the desk drawer, rubbing the polished wood, feeling as if a drum were beating beneath the surface. You slide the drawer open. Inside, a small bottle of whiskey rests sideways, the brown liquid swishing. You lift the bottle and uncork it in a fluid motion. The liquid splashes in your mouth, and you gulp hard, then another gulp, and another. Your throat burns, and the bottle drops as you let out a deep cough. Whiskey spills onto the desk, but you manage to cork it while stifling more coughs.
You find a pack of Marlboros in the drawer and light one up, filling the air with smoke. You crack the window near the desk and let the grey puffs blow in the May breeze.
Finishing your soup, you bring the empty bowl into the kitchen. Filling the dishwasher, you notice a speck of red on the bottom of the white oven door. You scratch it away; it has the consistency of dried blood. From the small window over the sink, you notice the snow has stopped, and the clouds have pulled away from one another, exposing the naked sky beyond. Snow in May. What a crazy world.