water. And some vodka , a sibilant voice in my mind whispered. Booze had a voice too, and it was weighing in. Just a little sip. Everything will feel so much better.
Because things already weren’t feeling good. The stiff new leather of the boots rubbed my ankles, and I hadn’t remembered to change into thinner socks so the dread toe jam continued. I was winded already, sucking air like an asthmatic. I felt perspiration springing up along my hairline. I knew I smelled like the alcohol working its way out of my pores and sweat: a reek with a musty, sharp edge to it like old people and chopping garlic.
I bet the Acrobat never smelled like this. I bet she’d bounce down the trail with a forty-pound pack at a jog, and if she sweated at all, it would smell like vanilla and pheromones. I couldn’t even hate her. She was twenty-two, barely older than Chris. Just a child. She couldn’t possibly know what she’d done to me—and her “prize” was getting Richard, for God’s sake.
I imagined him asking her to check if the electrolysis he’d had done on his back hair was still working, like he’d done with me. He was so lovably vain. Or at least I’d thought it lovable. Just goes to show the power of rationalization. But maybe he’d pretend for her, as if he didn’t hang on to every vestige of youth with all ten manicured nails.
Richard was a good man in a lot of ways. He was a hard worker, did a lot of pro bono for the Hawaiian community. He’d had a way of really listening to people, his handsome head cocked, his clear blue eyes intent, that made people feel like they were the most important person in the world. He’d had a big laugh, and he’d known his vanity was silly. We’d even had our own inside jokes about it, and I’d checked him over regularly for moles and stray hairs, like a good baboon wife.
He’s a son of a bitch. Hope he gets a disease and his dick falls off , Constance said. She sounded really angry on my behalf. Angrier than I was, come to think of it.
I stumbled over a rock in the trail, and the lurch forward pitched me off balance. I overcompensated, listing to the right—dangerously close to the long, unbroken sweep of harsh cinder that didn’t stop until the bottom of the crater, at least a mile straight down.
I landed on my hands and knees, deeply grateful for the rock biting into my palms, the sharp-edged sand grinding into my kneecaps. I rolled onto my butt and took the pack off. It promptly flopped over, dust obscuring the new fabric in a whoosh. This was a good spot for a pit stop rather than the outcrop, I decided. I made the mistake of looking back up the trail.
It didn’t look like I’d come a hundred yards.
Distance is deceiving here, Constance said . You can do this. Besides, if you quit, you have to walk back up that, hitchhike your ass back down to the car, and then go to Aloha House with its “medically supervised detox and counseling.”
Ugh. This hike couldn’t be as bad as the alternative. By the time Bruce found out I’d ditched Aloha House, I’d have kicked the booze and figured out what to do with the rest of my life.
I got out the water bottle, took a long pull. Got out the vodka bottle. Took a smaller pull. I had only one bottle to ease me through detox, and it would be better to wean myself off than end up totally cold turkey with more hard physical hiking to do.
I dug into the backpack and found the tightly rolled packet of thinner socks. Loosening the laces of my boots, I was dismayed to see red marks on my legs from the chafing of the tops of the boots and that my toes were already reddened, pulsing with pain as circulation reentered them.
There was nothing to do but put the lighter socks over my sore toes, work the boots back on. This time I tucked the abused yoga pants down into the boots and laced them over the lightweight fabric.
A gust of wind kissed my cheek with spitting grit. It would be bad if I didn’t make it to the cabin tonight—it was
Because things already weren’t feeling good. The stiff new leather of the boots rubbed my ankles, and I hadn’t remembered to change into thinner socks so the dread toe jam continued. I was winded already, sucking air like an asthmatic. I felt perspiration springing up along my hairline. I knew I smelled like the alcohol working its way out of my pores and sweat: a reek with a musty, sharp edge to it like old people and chopping garlic.
I bet the Acrobat never smelled like this. I bet she’d bounce down the trail with a forty-pound pack at a jog, and if she sweated at all, it would smell like vanilla and pheromones. I couldn’t even hate her. She was twenty-two, barely older than Chris. Just a child. She couldn’t possibly know what she’d done to me—and her “prize” was getting Richard, for God’s sake.
I imagined him asking her to check if the electrolysis he’d had done on his back hair was still working, like he’d done with me. He was so lovably vain. Or at least I’d thought it lovable. Just goes to show the power of rationalization. But maybe he’d pretend for her, as if he didn’t hang on to every vestige of youth with all ten manicured nails.
Richard was a good man in a lot of ways. He was a hard worker, did a lot of pro bono for the Hawaiian community. He’d had a way of really listening to people, his handsome head cocked, his clear blue eyes intent, that made people feel like they were the most important person in the world. He’d had a big laugh, and he’d known his vanity was silly. We’d even had our own inside jokes about it, and I’d checked him over regularly for moles and stray hairs, like a good baboon wife.
He’s a son of a bitch. Hope he gets a disease and his dick falls off , Constance said. She sounded really angry on my behalf. Angrier than I was, come to think of it.
I stumbled over a rock in the trail, and the lurch forward pitched me off balance. I overcompensated, listing to the right—dangerously close to the long, unbroken sweep of harsh cinder that didn’t stop until the bottom of the crater, at least a mile straight down.
I landed on my hands and knees, deeply grateful for the rock biting into my palms, the sharp-edged sand grinding into my kneecaps. I rolled onto my butt and took the pack off. It promptly flopped over, dust obscuring the new fabric in a whoosh. This was a good spot for a pit stop rather than the outcrop, I decided. I made the mistake of looking back up the trail.
It didn’t look like I’d come a hundred yards.
Distance is deceiving here, Constance said . You can do this. Besides, if you quit, you have to walk back up that, hitchhike your ass back down to the car, and then go to Aloha House with its “medically supervised detox and counseling.”
Ugh. This hike couldn’t be as bad as the alternative. By the time Bruce found out I’d ditched Aloha House, I’d have kicked the booze and figured out what to do with the rest of my life.
I got out the water bottle, took a long pull. Got out the vodka bottle. Took a smaller pull. I had only one bottle to ease me through detox, and it would be better to wean myself off than end up totally cold turkey with more hard physical hiking to do.
I dug into the backpack and found the tightly rolled packet of thinner socks. Loosening the laces of my boots, I was dismayed to see red marks on my legs from the chafing of the tops of the boots and that my toes were already reddened, pulsing with pain as circulation reentered them.
There was nothing to do but put the lighter socks over my sore toes, work the boots back on. This time I tucked the abused yoga pants down into the boots and laced them over the lightweight fabric.
A gust of wind kissed my cheek with spitting grit. It would be bad if I didn’t make it to the cabin tonight—it was
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