Chapter One
 

      It was ten after three in the morning.   And I was roused from sleep by throbbing pain.  I put my hand on my forehead, feeling the pulsation of a bad ache, along with the bitterness in my dry mouth.  I wondered how much I'd drank last night and my cotton tongue told me I'd probably matched each drink with a cigarette or two.

      At least this was Sunday.  I didn't have to go to work.  There was time for more sleep.  I shouldn't have had so many glasses of wine last night.  Wasn't I going to cut down on cigarettes before they killed me?  I coughed violently.   Maybe if I didn't smoke so much the cough would stop.  It had stopped for a while once.

      I climbed back into bed, rested my head on the pillow, and gave into the agony in my head.  It was my atonement and I embraced it.  But my mind was awake now—sleep would never come this morning.  A forlorn moan was released, one I usually kept tightly submerged deep within my core, the untouchable guts of my soul.  I was only going to have two glasses of wine, maybe three at the most.  What went wrong?  Was it routine, boredom?  Or was it something much worse?  No, I pushed that thought away.

      I had to admit the characters on the computer chat line were more interesting after a couple of glasses.  Otherwise they were dry, lifeless, lost souls.  Lonely.  But that wasn't true of me, especially after the cork came off.  Then I was the life of the party, the belle of the ball, and I basked in it, letting it fill the recesses where malignant cells strangled happy memories.

      I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the dresser and became enraged when I found there were none left.  Turning on the light, I looked over at the overflowing ashtray, wondering if there were any decent butts to get me through until later in the morning.  I picked up a smashed cigarette, straightened it out, and checked how close it was to the filter, and then flicked my lighter.  No flame.  I tried again, but the lighter was dead.  I swore and threw it against the wall.

      Slowly, I walked downstairs, watching each step, checking my balance.  By now, my head was a steady drone of pounding.  I felt around the kitchen cabinet and finally found a matchbook next to the aspirin bottle.  Ah! Aspirin.  I filled a glass with water and swallowed two.  The water was cool against my parched throat.

      Upstairs, I lit a butt and puffed, trying to keep it lit.  It was out in a few seconds.  I scavenged around the ash tray for more usable stubs of addiction, ashes falling by the wayside, and lit a couple more.  With my needs temporarily quenched, I laid down again, willing my mind to leave me alone and let me sleep.  Instead fuzzy memories floated in my head, keeping time with the pulsations.  Who did I talk to on the Internet before I turned off the computer last night?  What time had it been?  As usual, I couldn't remember.  And I knew I had probably forgotten to write it down on the pad next to my computer.  The one I kept there so I could jog my mind the next day to remember what I had said—and to see if I would be having to make apologies—again.

      Oh, who cares, I thought, as I scrunched the pillow into a ball.  It wasn't like they were real people.  Just characters on a computer screen.  Since I couldn't remember the conversations and wasn't up to a confrontation, I planned to hide out from my usual chat room for a couple of days and go talk to Brent in private chat.

      Brent made sense to me; he was honest.  He didn't play games though I did love games.  With him, I could talk, be candid, and from time to time, reveal little pieces of myself that had been locked away for years.  Something I'd never been able to do with anyone else, for I relished my privacy.  There were never any repercussions.  And he acted liked he adored me.  Damn, that felt good.  Real good.  When I talked to him, the cigarette and alcohol consumption went down.  The boredom disappeared.  I was riveted to the screen with no time for vices...or no desire.

      Now desire, that was a funny, strange notion.   I, Maile Winters, had put the thought of desire out of my mind for years.  I was happy by myself.  No need for any strings or attachments.  Yes, playing around on the Internet was safe.  No one knew who you were; you could be anyone you wanted to be.

      And at work, nobody cared.  Too busy, too much stress.

      Working in an advertising agency was like putting your nerves on the line each day.  No production, no profits, no job.  It was starting to get to me, too; the lines around my eyes were increasing on a daily basis.  I watched the new hires come in.  Fresh out of college, young things, matching blue pumps and purses, and I wondered how long I could keep up.  Being in my mid-forties, I knew it wasn't the time to start over.  There was no place to start from.

      The pain in my head subsided and I felt gentle waves of relaxation wash over me, peaceful.  But still I couldn't sleep.  Sunday had to get better.