I slowly opened my eyes. A little sliver of light was trying to peek through the edge of the shade covering the window in my bedroom that over looked the back yard. Normally, it was a pleasant light, but this morning it hurt my eyes, so I quickly closed them again.
A few vivid images of a more than slightly out of control young woman dancing with abandon at Doyle’s last night flashed through my mind like a movie trailer. Yup, that was me. I winced. A bad movie trailer.
I remember pulling out the little notebook I always carry and then writing down my observations on all the drunken people around me.
They were dancing and drinking and, being mostly drunk myself, not knowing how pretentious I appeared and in fact, was.
But last night I did not care one straw.
I wondered what nonsense I had thought was so wildly insightful the night before when 6 (maybe more?) whiskey sours had given me such a false sense of importance. Whatever it was it was in my notebook.
I slowly turned my head on my pillow. Lately I had had too many mornings like this one to know how painful a quick turning of the head could be. I was becoming very learned in the art of drinking or rather, over-drinking.
And there it was, lying on my bedside table where I had thrown it last night.