No one had to tell her the vomit was hers.
She knew, as she swung her legs from the bed, that it could only be hers.
She shivered a little as she recognized bits of last night’s dinner.
She did not recognize the bucket the vomit was in, but was grateful for it.
The man in her grandma’s wicker chair in her bedroom was a stranger.
He was not the first stranger in her room, nor the first to get out of bed before she did.
But her recollection of him was blank.
She began to attempt to sort through the memories when he said “Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth Reffino almost puked again, and she felt her skin start to peel from the neck down.
No one called her Elizabeth. She did not refer to herself as Elizabeth. She was Liz, not Lizzy, or Beth, nor even her childhood nickname of Lizard, though that would have made more sense to her.
But Elizabeth? No. No way. This man was a complete stranger.
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