He stumbled from the bar into the raw, wet night, pulling his jacket tight against him. He didn’t remember the rain. The day had been pleasant, with high blue skies and ample sunlight, which was why he’d entered the bar.
A car splashed past, headlights blinding him. He remembered the smell before he entered the bar: the air was weighted down with the scent of storm.
He stumbled towards his car, then remembered he’d walked. He reversed course and moved off towards home. His feet carried him across the familiar streets as his mind spun with the Stolis.
He hadn’t meant to have more than three, but that number had doubled as the sound of the rain slapping the ground came through an open door at the back of the bar. He was comfortable there. It was warm, dry.
The bar stank of spilt beer, sweat and dying dreams. He loved it. It was so familiar. It felt like home.
He didn’t remember reaching his front stoop. He did remember it was no longer his front stoop. He pulled up his hood to block out the night air, and set off towards his hotel.
There were no lights on the street and the storm clouds had blocked out the moonlight. His feet found puddles in the broken pavement. He didn’t notice the cold.
He stumbled past other drunken revelers. He tried to read the time on his watch and regretted the shot of Fernet that made it illegible.
Tears filled his eyes. He wasn’t sure why, maybe the cold? He couldn’t stop them. He wiped away the snot and the tears and stumbled onward.
He wished he was in a car. He wished he was home.
He stopped before a blinking sign reading ‘Motel.’ He wondered how he had arrived here.
