She’s passed out on the edge of the bed like a sloppy hooker, legs bent and spread, one arm over her face, the other wrapped around a container of melted ice cream spilling over in a thick memory of last night’s consumption.
Looking so peaceful I could kiss her but don’t.
Instead I inch off the other side to collect wet rags, skeptical I’ll succeed in cleaning up without making a bigger mess of things.
The kitchen’s a disaster of toppled bar stools and trash bins. It’s not the first time I’m regretting my decision to foray into overnight dog sitting.