Thousand: Three Hundred Seventy-Seven

curdles, it is difficult to clean the deep ill stink away. The man on the couch felt groggy, dizzy. He pressed the cool glass against his cheek. There was a roar in his head. The yellow dog had come back in and was sitting on the other side of the coffee table staring at him. The man nodded, put the glass down on a cardboard coaster advertising Gelato Beer (“Colder than a Witch’s Tit!”), and stood. His head thrust through the ceiling. He closed then opened his eyes and each eyelid rose with the windy gasp of the lid of