A Pattern of Shadows

Fred Ruskin lay tangled in sweaty sheets, awake, alone, and staring at the ceiling, just as he’d been doing for the last hour and a half. He was also very drunk, and had been since at least noon, maybe longer. He honestly couldn’t remember. It was sweltering inside his apartment and he felt like he was going to puke again. Fighting down the urge to vomit, he forced himself to his feet, grabbing the bedpost for balance, and shuffled across his little apartment to the refrigerator to down another bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon.