The divorce was final. I threw up, and handed the towel to Mari. She screamed and dropped it. "Shit, mom, i am phobic of vomit," she said.

I looked at her face which now seemed orphaned, ruined.

"I am just a bit emotional," I said.

"Mom, you are going to get dinner soon, right?"

I wondered about who would be cooking for Jim. Jim who could not crack an egg without gooping up his shirt. Jim who could not stand the smell of perfume, and who was chemically sensitive. Jim's chest, the smell of Jim's leather belts.

I threw up again, Mari took out the frozen burritos.

I needed to get back into jogging soon. My hips were cumbersome chairs from another era. Nothing was in usable condition. The microwave only worked on Reheat. My face was small and hungry.