The bathroom tile is a middleground between teal and aquamarine. I remember the day this small closet-like space was spackled white, the expert precision in which the workmen laid and cut the tile, little squares, decorative with purpose. Now there’s someone inside the bathroom with the door locked, wretching. Whispers of prayer and profanity come through the little crack of the door on the bottom. In the dark, a golden beam of light eeks out. The occupant has no strength left to reach back up and turn it off, hangovers are never kind or easy or negotiable. How could I ever forget the taste of sour bile? Acidic and cutting, helpless to stop the waves of nausea. Vomiting is surrender. Body takes over and mind shuts off. You close your eyes and wish for it to be over. Wish to forget dinner and all the decisions that led up to this moment, even if those decisions were made lifetimes ago. Shaking with a cold sweat. I recall those moments. I watch the still, wooden door and become mildly aware of the morning light beginning to lift away the clouds of night. The shades and curtains begin to show themselves again. My bare feet are embedded in the carpet. This is their home now. Afraid to move. Time to confront. Deep sighs, gasping, pleading. This is punishment now. The Bible tells us that sinners will eventually need to come to their knees, well here we are. One final spit. The light turns off. I hear the running water of the sink, cleverly masking the sobbing which only I can hear. Every Sunday morning does not need to start this way, but it does. I, sleepless and worried and numb. He, momentarily remorseful and apologetic. It will fade. It will not last. This cycle will start back up again. And I will be standing outside the door, cold with no slippers, waiting for a call for help, an opportunity to be of use that will never come. The tile on the bathroom floor must be cold and unkind.