Punchy
Steve hasn’t slept well for a couple nights. He looks a little punchy this morning.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Oh, OK, I guess. I had some bad dreams last night. No horror, but some weird examination of some aspect of something. I don’t know.”
This sounds ominous to me. Just this morning I finished a letter to a friend about dreams and portents.
“How’re you doing?” he asks. “You have a headache or anything?”
Yesterday I wrote a long letter to my best friend. I boldly proclaim at the end that I will not have any sweets or wine that day. Well, that night I ended up drinking a whole bottle, getting so drunk that the evening was terminated with my head in the toilet.
“I’m a little so-so.” I waver my hand. “My head feels kind of… crushed in.”
Steve laughs in little breathy gasps.
He’s written about my drinking on this morning’s blog. There’s a picture of a dead rabbit. The rabbit lies on its side. It looks like it’s striving for something, elbow bent and pawing the ground. Particularly poignantly, the eye is missing, leaving a big black hole.
“The picture of that rabbit is an effective illustration,” I tell him.
He says, “In the old days, the pregnancy test had something to do with a rabbit. If the rabbit died, you were pregnant. So the phrase was, the rabbit died.”
“Maybe you inseminated me last night!”
“I certainly hope not,” he retorts.
“No, maybe you inseminated me with creativity. We’ll have a baby book.”
“Oh, ok.”
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