I woke up hung over, my head throbbing. It felt like mini-jackhammers were destroying my frontal lobe, something I am sure the Scotch took care of last night.

The room was unfamiliar, but I had seen it plenty of times laid out in some IKEA or Sears catalog. I was on the bed with an Oak, maybe Maple, night-stand next to it. The room smelled, not good or bad, just different from my bedroom. Clothes covered the floor in front of the closet, where I suddenly saw my pants. A desperate roll to my side brought back the mini-jackhammers.

The sheets were torn off the foot of the bed, by my action most likely as the feeling of being trapped even bothers my subconscious. I desperately rolled to the other side of the bed where a matching dresser hugged the wall. A mirror was placed on it, and even without my glasses, I could tell I looked like hell.

And to my surprise, no one was next to me. I vaguely remember meeting a woman down at the bar. I vaguely remember walking. I truly remember the rain.

So, I grabbed my scattered clothing, and meander to the bathroom. The whiteness of that bathroom may as well have set a nuclear bomb off in my head. I pissed without the light on, as I attempted to concentrate.

The apartment was tiny. The hallway, maybe 4-feet long led to the living room, which only had enough space to hold a small sofa, an even smaller desk was tucked in the corner. A television faced the sofa and it was on HGTV, God I hate that channel.

Then, I saw the back of her head, as she faced the television.

Time slightly froze. The bombs and hammers stopped, and I truly remembered her name. Out of all the things I forgot last night, her name was not one of those things.

“Morning, Sarah.”