By midmorning, a dimly lit apartment uptown, Richard groans and rolls over in bed, shielding his eyes from the narrow beam of light creeping through the curtain.
His head throbs—each beat a sharp reminder of last night's descent into oblivion. He tries to sit up, but nausea grips him. Slumping back down, he closes his eyes.
What... happened?
There are flashes. The bar. The second bar. The third drink. A fight on the phone? Someone trying to stop him from leaving. He remembers yelling. Maybe throwing something. But after that—nothing.
He forces himself to sit up. His shirt is crumpled on the floor. His phone lies beside the bed, dead. He plugs it in and stumbles toward the kitchen. The silence is thick. There's no TV humming, no notifications pinging. Only the sluggish drip of the tap.
The kettle hisses as it boils. He leans on the counter, his eyes landing on the photo of him and Vanessa on the fridge. Taken a year ago at her cousin's birthday.
