He wakes up with a mouthful of sawdust.
Or that’s what it feels like, anyway.
The morning is blurry and late; smeary sky outside a rain-drabbled window. His head hurts, not surprising given the sawdust mouth. Too many Moscow Mules with the squad last night, and he’s regretting it this morning.
He knew he’d regret it as he slammed them back to the tunes of Garth and Reba on the beer-stained jukebox last night, but he’d been hopeful it would help, at least in the short term.
And for the moment, it seems to have done just that.
He flashes back. Pictures each moment.
The frantic groping with the blonde in too much makeup and a too-tight dress.
The bleary ride home in the back of an Uber.
These are all things he did.
These memories belong to him; this time was his own.
This hangover is well-and-truly earned.
He rights himself in bed and waits for the room to right itself around him. It takes a minute.
He reaches for his phone. Dials.
The voice on the other end is impatient, eager. “Did it work?”
“Yeah. I’m still me.”
(I have no idea what this is yet, but it came out today, so I thought I’d preserve it. Where’s it going? I have no idea.)