Red Wine Hangover

Sunlight trickles in, inducing familiar pain at the middle of my forehead,

the remnants of cheap red wine on my breath.  My fist finds the

alarm clock, halts the buzzing, stale and rhythmic. Red binary eyes

staring at me, startled at me, angry at me; it was only doing its job.

Roll from bed, trapped in sheets, dropping the glass that I brought

into the bed. Sea of red, dry and dark, stains the white. I’ll be

pissed when I’m awake enough to care.  Stumble through doors.

Not this one, or this one.  Where the hell is the bathroom?

Down the hall to the right.  Not the left! Now

I remember. Take a seat on the throne,

an ecstatic moment of pure relief.

Forget to flush.

Cool running water

splashing my eyes;

find the towel.

Where’s the towel?

The damn towel!

Screw the towel!

Find the kitchen,

and the Advil.

Douse with water,

lots of water.

One tall glass,

another half full

one half empty.

Green bottles everywhere.

Broken wine glass

with no stem,

almost discovered with

my bare feet.

Shrug my shoulders.  I’m still drunk.  Back to bed.

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