Understandably, I attributed all my pain and suffering the next morning to a confluence of alcohol and violence. The pounding head seemed a reasonable hangover sort of thing, and a lump or two explained all the more. My bleary eyes were either from hours in a smoke-filled hole of a bar, or all that crying. Contortions and involutions going on inside and among my intestines practically sang choruses of recrimination for having imbibed so freely.

Then there were the cravings. That was new, and I’d done a lot of drinking of alcohol to this point. Visions of large, juicy steaks slid into my brain, defying the nausea of my stomach. And I wanted rabbit, nice, plumb, juicy rabbits, stewed, or roasted, or something. Sick thing was, up until that point for the past seven years, I’d been a vegetarian.

I spent that whole day like that. Dream of food. Retch at the thought. Dream of more food. Retch again. All the while, aching from head to toe.

On the bright side, at least I got to see her again.