Azarius Valliadis

Stepping out of the steam-laden bathroom, I fasten the robe around my waist, tugging the fabric as though it might somehow squeeze the day's tension right out of me. One hand sweeps through my hair, and I wander toward the bedroom, exhaustion setting in with a sort of dramatic finality, like the universe might owe me a medal just for surviving the workday.

I glance at the cabinet in the corner, where a glass of something strong—brandy, whisky, or frankly, anything flammable—awaits.