Homesick
Nothing felt quite as satisfying to him as emptying his pockets after a long evening. From his lint-filled pants appeared a bulky wallet, fuller of change than cash, a set of car keys, some chap-stick, and a receipt he didn’t even remember having at any point that day. It seemed strange to him that only hours ago he was having the time of his life, laughing and cheering his friends on as they improv’d their way through a maniacal scene. He could feel the alcohol drifting out of his system, his vision focusing ever so slightly upon the suddenly very comfortable bed that awaited him. He smirked at the fact that pillows looked deceivingly plusher, and blankets more welcoming when the day prior was particularly shitty. He played the image of him sinking into his bed frame over and over again in his head, but in reality was just staring at it longingly. It looked to him like a woman out of his league. His bed-side fan whirred uncomfortably, chucking more dust than air around him. ...