“I’ll get you some. How do you feel about bourbon?”
Her face lights up. “Bourbon makes everything better.”
5
Melody
Someone is trying to split my skull in half with a rusty axe.
I’m almost sure of it.
Each pulse of blood through my temples is another whack, and the light filtering through my eyelids might as well be laser beams.
I attempt to roll over and discover I’m wrapped tighter than a Christmas present; the blankets are tucked firmly around me like a straitjacket.
“Who wrapped me like an Egyptian mummy?” I mumble, struggling against my cotton prison.
There’s no way drunk me managed this level of bedmaking precision.
Drunk me can barely find the bed.
I pry one eye open and immediately regret it.
“Ughhhh,” I groan.
My mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died. I vaguely remember wine. Lots of wine. And dancing. Definitely some questionable dancing that I’m grateful no one witnessed.
Oh wait
Singing.
Good lord, I was singing!
With great effort, I extricate one arm from my blanket prison and press my palm against my forehead, as if I can physically hold my brain in place.
It doesn’t help.
Fragmented memories float through the murky swamp of my hangover.
Eyes watching me.
“Snow monster,” I mumble, then shake my head, instantly regretting the movement.
Not a snow monster. A llama. Oxford. With a scarf.
And then what?
I force both eyes open and take in my surroundings. I’m in the little bedroom I claimed for myself, tucked under the eaves.
But something’s off.
On the nightstand beside me sits a glass of water, two aspirin, and a book I definitely don’t recognize. I squint at the title: “The Idiot’s Guide to Not Freezing Your Butt Off.”
What the actual hell?
I struggle to a sitting position, fighting against my cocoon of blankets. My head spins, but I manage to down the aspirin and drain half the glass of water.
From downstairs, I hear voices: muffled conversation, the clatter of dishes, a laugh.