boomer

He rolled onto his side, to the outside. His head throbbed, his neck ached. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was. He blinked his eyes, tried to focus on the clock across the room. Finally did. Seven-forty, he guessed, wasn’t exactly sure. Yes. Now, 7:41. He rolled back onto his back. He was afraid to look right to see who was in bed with him. The revelations in the past, near and distant, hadn’t always been flattering to his ego, much less gild for his reputation. Before that, before he saw what – who -- was there, he needed to remember what day it was. For some reason he guessed Thursday. And, it was, he would discover in a moment or two. Thursday. He looked right. Dark hair. Freckled shoulders. That was all … and he had no idea. He needed to piss. That, first, now. He swung his legs off the bed, sat slowly, finally stood, waiting for his equilibrium to register before trying a step. Suddenly, his memory caught up. Thursday. Yes. And – holy shit! -- he was in the second foursome. He didn’t have much time. He pulled on his pants, grabbed a T-shirt, yanked on that, too, then headed toward the bathroom. A voice from the bed, raspy, whispery, said, “Good luck, today, Boomer.” He didn’t turn back. If he did, he’d have to remember her name and he didn’t have enough time for that. “Thanks,” he said. He really did have to whiz.