True Letters from a Fictional Life by Kenneth Logan

“James, you’re slurring.” I vaguely remember hugging Kim good night when herbrother picked her up, and I remember lying on the couch, leaving Derek the job of talking to Theresa in the kitchen. The room started to spin, and I tried to stop it by pressing my foot into the floor.
    Then I woke up at 5:40 a.m., my mouth dry and a wrecking ball swaying inside my head. I was in Theresa’s bed, wearing only boxers. What had I done?
    She was there, too, her back to me. Was that taste just wine? It wasn’t vomit. At least I hadn’t been sick. I stood up, felt dizzy, and grabbed the bedpost to steady myself, then shuffled to the bathroom. When I came back, Theresa was awake and facing me.
    â€œMorning,” I croaked. “Sorry to wake you.”
    â€œYou okay?” she asked.
    â€œI’m good. I mean, I want to die, but I’m good.” I tried to laugh, dropping onto the bed. “I got really drunk, huh?”
    â€œYou got really drunk.”
    â€œDid I have a good time?”
    No response.
    â€œI mean, did you have a good time?”
    She didn’t answer right away. “It’s not all that nice climbing into bed with a corpse, you know?”
    I was probably supposed to apologize by taking her hand in mine or something. I didn’t. “I didn’t even drink that much,” I groaned. “I don’t know what happened.” How much had I talked about Hawken? What had I said about him?
    â€œYou were a drunken idiot. That’s what happened.”
    I rolled away from her. Part of me was relieved—I hadn’t done anything to make her think we were any more serious than before. But I didn’t like her calling me a drunken idiot. I once saw a guy at a Bruins game, years earlier, who was so drunk that he fell over the seats in front of him and spilled beer all over these little kids. My dad turned to my brothers and me and said over the shouting and crying, “And that , my friends, is why you don’t want to become a drinker.”
    Birds were beginning to chirp in the gray light. I rolled over onto my back. “You have any Advil or anything like that?” She didn’t offer to get it for me. She just told me where to find it, and I nodded, flung my arm over my face, and tried pushing against that wrecking ball to make room for sleep.
    That afternoon I drank gallons of water, fell into a coma for two hours, and then forced myself to go for a long run. I’d read that it’s a good way to feel better after a night like that one. I don’t know if it’s because you sweat the poison out of your system or because it just feels like the right punishment, but either way it works for me. I threw up on a back road at the top of the biggest hill. It was self-inflicted misery that I was somehow proud to suffer. The rest of the way home was torture, too, which made me feel even better. When I got out of the shower, I actually felt pretty good, if not exactly relaxed.
    I couldn’t stop thinking about how I just had to get overHawken and either make things work with Theresa or tell her we were done. Those thoughts were on a loop in my head. They kept me awake that night. Eventually, I turned my light on and tried anesthetizing myself with the collection of Nathaniel Hawthorne stories that I keep by my bed for just such emergencies. But even that didn’t work. I got up and started writing a letter at 2:00 a.m., and, looking back, I think I was trying too hard to sound cheerful.
    Sunday, April 24th
    Dear God,
    Since you’re all-knowing and all-powerful, omniscient even, it may be unnecessary to put what’s going through my head on paper. I suspect you already know what I’m thinking and feeling. That is, of course, if you actually exist. To be honest, I have my doubts. You have to admit, given this world of suffering, it can be tough to believe there’s any sort of Loving Grand Design. But let’s assume for at