Saturday Morning

It is Saturday morning and I have a raging
hangover. My mother calls.
I answer.
"Good morning. What time will you be over today?"
I blink once. Twice. I turn to Richie. He smiles.
"I don't know." I respond. "Maybe in a few hours?"
I have errands to run and
people to see and I still have to pick up my
prescription."
I can hear my mom roll her eyes over the phone.
She clucks her tongue with disapproval.
"You know you don't need those meds, right?
You're fine.
You just have to handle it better.
Don't allow yourself to get so sad."
She stretches her words out whenever she's trying
to stress how stupid I am.
I sit up, slightly more awake, and turn to
Richie. He sighs in sympathy.
I say, "I am 40% more likely to buckle my
seat belt when the car alarm suggests that I should
on my meds."
"You're 40% more likely to brood with this diagnosis."
She retorts.
I massage my left temple in frustration. Richie is
leaning against the headboard now, and he pulls
me in to his chest.
The silence is palpable.

And then, finally:
"Why are you even sad, anyway?"

It is Saturday morning. I have a raging
hangover. My mother asks.
I answer

with some excuse we both know is a lie.
"You know mom? I just remembered I have a
paper due in a few hours.
I'll get started on that, and if I
have enough time, I'll stop by."

We both know that I'm not stopping by.
My mom says okay. She'll talk to me later.

It is Saturday morning. I have a raging
hangover. My mother hangs up.
I sleep.