Woken, shirtless, by tardy churchgoer. Rushed, flushed. She helps me find my clothes, pulls me from the glint of sun-dried shotglasses. Hands me my glasses. Tells me I kissed her, flashed her, punched her. Split her lip. Sight still split, two tongues seen, but neither believed. Hilarity. Weaving home through laughs and lanes and chuckles.
Sheets, then sent apologies. Sleep. Late, late sleep. Waking, stumbling into black outfits for mourning and for work. Leaving. Attractive neighbor-woman asks me to move out of the way as she pulls into a parking spot, car as silver as mine. Convinced our apartment building isn't for the pretty girls, only the retards, the foreigners, and the malformed. Conversation. Departure.
It's all too funny.
This is being hungover enough to get drunk off of shots of sun.
