Alcohol is the fruit of the devil. The allure of puritanical levels of alcohol avoidance sang to me as I pressed my forehead into the cool tile wall next to the toilet.
If I'd been in a better mental state I may have felt disgusted, touching tile so close to where the toilet flushed and sprayed its germs. But as it stood the only thing I could think about was the mental countdown warning me of my next bought of wrenching.
"Rough night?" Kay called from the doorway.
When I looked back I found him frustratingly composed. His messy bed-head added to his effortless allure instead of subtracting. Even the subtle shadows under his eyes served to highlight his abyssal eyes, like a tasteful smokey eye.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed casually and eyes sparkling with amusement.
I lifted my hand and flipped him off. He cooed softly and moved to crouch next to me.
