Pacific Garden Mission (con’t)

Grig wakes up, a hateful morning light burning through the thin tapestry TonyO hangs over his front window. Yesterday’s drizzle has given way to merciless clarity, bright blue slivers of sky bleed around the sheet edges. He’s slept maybe four hours, shaking his head and shuddering against the frustrating truth that liquor puts you to sleep but won’t let you linger. Grig wants to scoop his thumbs into his eyesockets, make room for his swollen brain and the dull yellow ache behind his eyes.