Waking up, trying to remember if teeth were brushed, in the literal middle of the night. A voicemail, just in case there's trouble, interrupted by a slide of a card in the heavy door.
"They made me drink half a bottle of single malt, we closed the bar then went to the casino," he takes off his pants, "I feel terrible," he takes off his shirt, "I have no idea how to play blackjack, they kept giving me chips and telling me I had to learn, I lost every hand," he crawls into the sheets and grabs my hand. The vulnerability of a wasted man in his late twenties.
A strange sweetness to these moments, a version of a boy put away sometime around the age he stopped confiding in his mother. Even in being awake in the middle of the night, endearing, mine. Funny contrast, a public alpha with instant admission to the club of scotch gratis.
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