*BEEP*BEEP*BEEP*

You wake up.

Harsh sunlight burns your eyes. You grunt and wince. The beeping penetrates your skull. On impulse, you reach out and bang around for your ringing cellphone. You manage to divert the call. The throbbing in your head lessens slightly as the noise vanishes.

You lie still for a moment, eyes still squeezed shut, temples hammering. It comes back to you.

Bourbon and nicotine headache.

Carefully you roll over and slowly sit up. You didn't open the window or turn on the fan before you passed out. The sheets under you are damp; one part alcohol, one part sweat, one part drool, one part sunburn peel.

You're dying for a cigarette and manage to find your pack of Marlboros on the bed beside you. You remember that you've woken up alone for the second morning in a row. You remember why you were drinking.

The cigarette is rough, but bliss. It makes your head throb harder. You try to ignore it.

A physical wreck, you flash back to last night...

It's 11pm. Your finger tips are tender to the touch and Holly is still shaking breathlessly in your hands as she has been almost non stop over the last day. Spent, you lay her on the bed. That Strat has been your world for the last few hours - a new experience. Six months after Holly moved in to your life, you have finally made progress. Today, the guitar did not just hum in your hands. It sung. It wept. Briefly. But this is a good sign.

You shower to try and rise off some of the layer of peeling skin and climb into bed and read. It's almost midnight when you get the text. Charlea tells you to get Rui and come to the Ballroom. You reply - Rui won't be coming. She tells you to come get drunk and cry with her. You decide it's worth the effort of putting pants back on.

It's 1am and your last twenty dollars is swallowed in a mouthful of coke and bourbon. Your last cigarette has been smoked. Your work mate thinks you did the right thing, finally. Your work mate also thinks you're a bit of a drop kick.

You agree with your work mate.

With your bank account emptier than your bottle of Beam, you begin to leave. She won't allow it. She spends far too much money on your drinks.

In return, you listen.

You knew what it was she was saying. But now you also understand it.

The bar quietens down as 3am rolls around. You talk to Jazz and Carly. Jazz used to work at Slingshot. You trade stories over the people who are still there and still infamous.

Jimi Hendrix's strat orgasms through a wah pedal and the Ballroom's amplifiers.

Your work mate tells you about her tattoos. You tell her about yours. Well. What they'll be like. You discuss where to get your other ear scalpelled.

Suddenly, it's four thirty in the morning. You're drunk. So is she. So is the bar tender.

Are Minor Threat the most influential punk band ever? Are the Sex Pistols? What kind of punk is being discussed?

The staff shuffle the patrons out in record time. You're steered back your seats of honour at the bar. You're regulars. You're special. You drink more as it all winds down, the lights go out and cash is counted. Smoke rises in rings from your lips as you hunch over the steel counter. The bartender seems slightly beyond tipsy. The jukebox moves from lame to dodgy. You roll our eyes and say your good byes.

You stumble on to K'Rd. Somewhere, a bird chirps and the sky has warmed from black to navy blue. You help your Financier rip a poster off a wall. It's advertising a band you haven't heard of playing at a bar you didn't know existed. You hug and offer your millionth display of gratitude for her generosity and swear to return the favour. You wave politely at the departing cab and somehow make it home.

It's almost 6am. Somehow you get naked and pass out on your bed.

Sleep is beautiful and welcoming.