The next morning

Kevin’s arm flopped out of the bed.  He slipped into consciousness through the thick fog of a hangover.

‘Oh, feck,’ he muttered and wished he hadn’t. 

He lay motionless, his eyes closed, stomach queasy, memories of the previous evening flitting across his mind’s eye like the flipping of television channels.

A street, a bar, a crowd of people, then an altercation -- a flash of auburn hair, a slither of white skin, an angry voice, raised hands -- a street again, another bar.

He tried to flip back, already sensing shame and regret, wanting but dreading the moment of recall.




A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.