(revising the gutter)

It was no longer Thursday night, which meant it was fully Friday morning. The sun was visible through the windows, hanging out in the sky, all bright and pure. I paused to watch it dangle condescendingly, red over lower Manhattan. Everything looked the way it should, especially the warmly lit, unforgiving concrete. I would go home and sleep for a few hours and then I’d pick my life up out of the gutter. I swallowed the remainder of the whiskey and put the cup on the sill, wishing I’d left the party hours earlier.