Her smile is the last thing he sees before he lets his eyelids fall closed, wishing she could just keep running her fingers through his hair. Already quickly drifting off, he hears the faint clink of glass bottles-- and then nothing else.
"all the really good times happen when wayne's around"
motown on the jukebox
country & western on the radio
whiskey in a glass
dope on a spoon
Tommy wakes with a gasp-- and then coughs. The fit passes in a few moments, but it leaves him breathless with his head swimming. He closes his eyes and swallows, remembering a familiar taste on his tongue. There's the sweet twang of Floyd Cramer and...some scruffy kid singing along to Joe Tex, and...
Tommy opens his eyes. He blinks slowly in the light, brow furrowed. Were those memories? Or just all part of a dream?
He throws the covers back and sits up, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. What is he wearing? A t-shirt with the NHL logo on it. What the hell, he doesn't even like hockey. He gets up and crosses the room to look through 'his' drawer in the dresser. There isn't a single flannel shirt. Why?
It's almost noon, but Kate isn't back yet. She'd told him to stay put, but he's got a strange, overwhelming need, a need that he isn't sure where it's coming from. Part dream, part reality. In a sluggish, zombie-like trance, he changes out of his sweatpants into a pair of jeans and pulls on his boots. He's about to leave the room when he notices that there's no hat for him on the hat rack. What?
This has to be rectified, he reckons. Bar will surely provide. He'll just pop downstairs and get some decent clothes.
Ten minutes later, Tommy is sitting at the table, hunched over the breakfast tray and spooning cold grits into his mouth. He's wearing a blue plaid shirt; a straw cowboy hat is tipped toward the back of his head.
no subject
"all the really good times happen when wayne's around"
motown on the jukebox
country & western on the radio
whiskey in a glass
dope on a spoon
Tommy wakes with a gasp-- and then coughs. The fit passes in a few moments, but it leaves him breathless with his head swimming. He closes his eyes and swallows, remembering a familiar taste on his tongue. There's the sweet twang of Floyd Cramer and...some scruffy kid singing along to Joe Tex, and...
Tommy opens his eyes. He blinks slowly in the light, brow furrowed. Were those memories? Or just all part of a dream?
He throws the covers back and sits up, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. What is he wearing? A t-shirt with the NHL logo on it. What the hell, he doesn't even like hockey. He gets up and crosses the room to look through 'his' drawer in the dresser. There isn't a single flannel shirt. Why?
It's almost noon, but Kate isn't back yet. She'd told him to stay put, but he's got a strange, overwhelming need, a need that he isn't sure where it's coming from. Part dream, part reality. In a sluggish, zombie-like trance, he changes out of his sweatpants into a pair of jeans and pulls on his boots. He's about to leave the room when he notices that there's no hat for him on the hat rack. What?
This has to be rectified, he reckons. Bar will surely provide. He'll just pop downstairs and get some decent clothes.
Ten minutes later, Tommy is sitting at the table, hunched over the breakfast tray and spooning cold grits into his mouth. He's wearing a blue plaid shirt; a straw cowboy hat is tipped toward the back of his head.