I could tell Rodolfo* was intoxicated as soon as he opened the door to his apartment. The slurry Spanish and smell of rum were the giveaways, plus he was always chattier after a few shots with his supper. Bottles lined the counter next to a half-eaten dish of enchiladas. Aware that Rodolfo was an alcoholic, I knew that his momentary cheeriness held darker implications.
While typing case notes after meeting with him, my phone autocorrected liver cirrhosis to “lover cirrhosis.” The correction seemed random and arbitrary at first. After I thought more about it though, it began to seem somewhat fitting.