The Hangover

A few fingers of light poked through the crack in the ballroom drapes and tapped his forehead, his massive shoulder, his puffy, lidded eye. He shifted uncomfortably with a slight grunt, slowly surfacing into a stiff, subdued torpor. His eye opened and squinted into the tiny blade of light. He was suddenly aware of his deeply uncomfortable position. Something small and hard poked into his back. An elbow? A knee? He turned his head cautiously and the dull throbbing became a pulsing stream of hammer blows. It wasn't his first hangover, and maybe not even the worst, but it was a doozy. Nothing to do but get up and face it.

He shifted carefully on the pile of warm, close bodies sleeping around him. This wasn't his first orgy, and maybe not even the best, but it had been a big one. Who were all these people? There seemed to be hundreds, thousands, millions of them sprawled across the dark carpeting in every state of undress. He affectionately patted a bare rump as he struggled for balance and rose to his considerable height. The throbbing pain redoubled its attack before slowly receding. Here and there a naked reveler stirred, and that familiar feeling returned, the melancholy, the hint of shame, the gradual crescendo of dread.

Some would crawl quietly into the shadowed corners pulling clothes, belts, shoes behind them, skulking for the nearest exit and the quick dash into the bright parking lot, bruised conscience in tow. But most would stay, and they would soon be looking up at him. For reassurance, for forgiveness, for a sense that it was OK what they had done. Whatever it might have been.

And then he must face them, look them in the eye, as he had done so many times before. What would he say? He would think of something. He always had.