It was while shaking the scotch induced cobwebs from his head that Otis realized he was not alone. Lying next to him was the busty bartender from the hole in the wall across the street from his office. Moments like this caused Otis to curse the alcohol amnesia that had become as much a part of his life as morning showers or days at the office. He desperately wanted to remember the events of the night before, but he knew it was futile to try. He thought of her often when was alone and now it seemed that he had missed the main event.

With all the grace of a tortoise on its back, Otis found the floor with his feet and lifted his abused body from the bed, which was merely a frameless mattress and box springs flopped in the middle of the floor. The studio apartment was completely bare, save for the bed in one corner, a kitchen table near the stove, and the variety of garbage that was the hallmark of Otis' lifestyle. He navigated through the dark, past the piles of dirty laundry and discarded pizza boxes, in his quest for the kitchen and the salvation that lie within.

He stood in the kitchenette looking back at the voluptuous girl in his bed. She was fifteen years his junior and slept peacefully among the pile of unwashed sheets heaped upon the mattress. Her full, bare breasts stood in defiance of gravity as she shifted her weight in a subconscious attempt to fill the empty space left by Otis' departure. Otis shook his head and wondered if she was as drunk as he was the night before, and if this was a simple one night stand or something he might be able to pull off again. He briefly considered rousing her for an encore performance, but he knew from experience that the passions of the night often fade into something quite different come morning.

His attention returned to the task at hand and he moved towards the drawer next to the refrigerator. With one hand scratching at the stubble on his face, Otis fumbled through the drawer with his free hand and extracted a half full bottle of whiskey and a handful of colorful pills. He threw the capsules down his throat and washed them down with a hearty slug from his bottle. The clock caught Otis' eye as he returned his crutch to the drawer; eight-thirty and he had a meeting in the office at nine. He slumped back against the counter, took one last look at the scene in his bed, and thought to himself, "what a f****** life".