Gary stood on the rooftop shouting
nonsense phrases into the sunrise. Mary fanned him with yesterday's
New York Post. The birth of a ritual. From this day on their predawn
benders would climax in non sequiturs and cool breezes. When the sun
fully rose they would retire to their separate apartments and dream
of making love to each other. Something they never had the guts to do
when sober nor remembered to do when they were drunk. They lived for
that magic moment after two drinks when their love would spark only
to be lost in the inertia of intoxication.
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Talk to me dude