It’s difficult enough being hungover. The killer headache. The fogginess. Feeling like everything is happening too fast, but in slow motion at the same time. Each time, it’s enough that he swears he’s never going to drink again, and yet, obviously, he’d gone back and done it anyway. Every damn time. He does just fine for a while––years, even––and then right back to square one.
Now, on top of the usual mentally berating himself, Sally is here. She’d jarred him awake and now she was talking and showing him her hand and––
Had it been a different situation, the way his eyes widened might have been comical. Hell, Sally probably would have made some comment about him gawking or some thing. But this is not a comical situation. That ring is not a clever punchline or witty retort. Of all the––
It’s about the only words to escape him before he puts his head in his hands.
“This is not happening. Sonuva––…… I’m going to be sick.”
Of course, it only takes him a second or so to realize how that probably sounded to her and again he looks up at her and again too quickly as he has to wait for the room to stop spinning before he continues.
One hand raised towards her, almost as though to beg pardon, he starts to say something (anything, really, to explain that what he’d said had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him, the general situation) though of course it would be his left hand, the hand that now sports a ring of it’s own.
And the sight of that alone is enough to sidetrack his already rather taxed mind and return him as he had been: Sitting on the bed, head in his hands, and trying to figure out how the hell he’d not only messed himself up this time, but dragged one of his co-workers––and not even just any co-worker, but someone he likes, cares about, and respects a great deal––down with him. As if his first, very planned and intentional and sober marriage, hadn’t ended in disaster. Now, by all appearances, as of last night, he’d entered into another marriage, not planned, intentional, or the least bit sober.
“Oh God, Sally,” he manages at last, though he can’t even look at her as he continues to cradle his head, massaging his temple in a pointless attempt to relieve some of the pain. “God, I’m so sorry.”
Whether for the possibly (unintentionally) offensive reaction to the news or to the situation in general is anyone’s guess.
