Sylvia Plath, Apprehensions “You still haven’t told me where you went last night – or should I say this morning?” said Naomi, pouring a steady ribbon of black coffee, before handing it to Karl. Background music from Downtown Radio’s afternoon show lilted over the room. Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way”.Cupping the mug, Karl considered how the coffee’s blackness resembled his mood perfectly.“This fair trade coffee tastes like bloody muck. Can’t we just get our normal coffee? Where the hell’s all that expensive Rio coffee?” moaned Karl, trying desperately to sidestep the looming interrogation. His brain was still quaking with the drainage of whatever shit Cathy had injected into his body.“You’re just in one of your hate-the-world moods, finding fault in everything. Anyway, you were just about to tell me where you were at five in the morning and how you got all those mysterious scratches on your face.”Trying desperately to come up with a feasible story, Karl’s brain suddenly began kicking into gear.
