​     Twenty-two years old. 

     Adam didn't remember the sex at all. 

     Too drunk. 

     Razor blades of memory swam through the thick vomit of his inner landscape. He vaguely remembered talking to this woman twenty years his senior at, like, the sixth or seventh bar him and his friends hit that night. What was her name again? Daphne? Doris? 

     He had blood all over his waist and balls. This Daphne or Doris must've been having her period. Now she snored like she had two throats next to him in her bed.

     Adam stumbled into the bathroom to puke, then found his clothes to dress himself. It wasn't until he had his shoes back on that he heard a female voice say, "Leaving?", although, the way she said it, the word had an "R" and a couple more "g"s in it.

     "Gotta' go," Adam replied.

     She returned to her snores. Adam stumbled outside and vomited again in an alley. He had no idea where he was or what time it was, only that it was night. Angel was going to kill him when she...and he had blood all over him! How was he ever going to explain...oh no. Oh no. 

​     He got sick again. 

     Fumbling home, he warmed himself, for a few moments anyway, as he passed someone's old, decrepit tool shed, now dissolving in flames that reminded Adam of red roses before he bent over to, yet again, puke his guts out.  

                                                      CONTINUE