A Late Night

It was late when I got back to my office. The tumbler of bourbon was on my desk where I'd left it next to an almost empty bottle. The ice had melted, leaving warm, bourbon flavored water behind. I swallowed it down and sloshed two fingers more into the glass. I preferred it on the rocks, but neat would do just fine right now. Knocking it back, I made that face people make when drinking hard liquor, and slumped down into my chair. It creaked under my weight and I reminded myself to buy a new chair.

I poured the rest of the bottle into the glass and leaned back, rubbing my eyes. They felt gritty, full of sand. I looked at the clock. It was almost 4:00am. Another long night. Fruitless, you might say. Mindlessly, I composed a haiku:

another night lost
searching for what can't be found
rest is for the weak

And then, because that seemed a little bleak, and overly dramatic, this one:

too many late nights
make me a little crazy
could be the bourbon

That seemed more appropriate. I finished the drink, grimaced, and stood up. The warmth in my belly told me that the most recently dispatched glass had met up with the other two, and they were all getting along famously.

Time to go home and face the music.