One eye flutters open. A blade of light slices through the blinds. The eye crumples shut. Which means I’m alive. Which means I am, in fact, going to have to slog through another one of these hangovers. As hard as I am on Esau for his lack of life experience, you’d think I might actually apply the lessons mine has imparted to me at least occasionally. And yet here I am, weeks away from forty-five, waking up with a maniac woodpecker inside my skull, my throat dehydrated to jerky. Lying in my own bed, loath to open my eyes, lest I regret having opened my ass to whoever the f**k I’m spooning.
I send my hands to gather reminders. He’s hairy, but too fit to be Nick. He’s long and slender, but his d**k’s barely a handful; not like I didn’t already know it wasn’t Esau. I crack one eye. He’s bronz
