For a few years there it seemed like the only thing that I lived for was Saturday night and Sunday morning. Saturday night was a crescendo of music, lights and liquor, a blur of narcotics, and a fog of loud, utterly forgettable conversation._ Sunday morning was a smoking crater of cognition. It was the eerie silence after an explosion that’s thrown you clear of the blast site and left you contorted and fully clothed on an uncomfortable couch while the morning sunlight treats your eyeballs like sandpaper._ “Buster....” Jo’s voice singsonged it’s way down to me in the dark. Something cold and hard pressed against my cheek there was a faint smell of burnt chrome, and my mouth felt like a bucket of rust. Had I fallen asleep in a decomposing Buick last night? “Buster, c’mon, get up. We’re meeting Parker, Alice and the girls at Bon’s for breakfast and you’re driving.” The car keys hit me in the chest and I creaked one eye open. There was Jo in her sweater and puffy vest and pom-pom toque ready for the winter morning. Jordyn was hovering across the room wearing his biker jacket, blue idiot mittens dangling from the sleeves._ “You slept on my guitar, man,” he said, “Give it back.”_ “Oh shit sorry,” I said as I raised myself up on an elbow and rubbed my cheek. The guitar case had provided a hard pillow. Jordyn took the case and gently put it with the rest of his gear across the room.

The world thumped in my head. Jo was laughing at me, Jordyn was pulling on his mitts._ “C’mon Buster,” she said as she walked to the front door and tugged it open. The cold air and sunlight dislodging me from my drowsy state. “You’re buying.” | image @iambillyhawkins