The Story of The Only Time Someone Has Been More Hungover Than Me

It was morning, and sunlight was prying open her eyes, but she rolled over and spread out, stretched and foetled for an hour because she liked the feeling of his clean sheets.

"Morning"
"...morning"
"How are you?"
"Terrible"

He had spent the majority of the walk home last night veering into parked cars, intermittently announcing that he fucked a fish-dog, a stray cat, and the back half of a camel, and that it was good. She had got him into bed safely.

"Can I get you anything"
"Morphine"
"Water?"
"QUIET!"

He was spread eagled, or perhaps a term that suggests less majesty; spread seagulled. He was spread seagulled across the bed in a position that doesn't afford a naked man much dignity. She looked out the window.

"It's a beautiful day outside"

Her looked to her with disgust.

"I'm going to have a shower"
"No!" He cried, retracting his knees underneath him and shuffling to her side of the bed like a limpet. "Don't leave me! I'm dying"
She quickly whatevered her face, looked him in the eye and said "I feel great". She stood up and walked to the door.

He lowed like a bull, shot his legs out underneath him to lie flat on his face and rolled toward the edge of the bed. He teetered, precariously, preciously, like the last horizon ray of sunshine on a winters afternoon, then crashed, with a limbed thud onto the carpet. For a moment he lay still then he shot to his knees and threw his arms and head back to the heavens, rage and fire in his bloodshot eyes, and bellowed with the thunderous roar of a man possessed.

"HECTIC!"