SATURDAY MORNING

Jon Constantino

Liquefied and lethargic, his eyelids unhinge, cracking open the crust at their rims and melting into their sockets.

How had he ended up on the sofa with no clothes on and no blanket in sight, a thick film coating his tongue,

his girlfriend upstairs on the hallway floor, towel wrapped tightly around her body, pants off, bedroom door wide open,

the living room wall punctured by the corner of the television, knocked off its stand, upside down and still on,

handle of vodka on its side with the cap off, its remnants trickled out and dried into the carpet,

a deck of Hooters Operation Iraqi Freedom, Let Freedom Wing playing cards strewn about the table,

snake-eyed dice resting next to the cards, glued in place to the wooden surface by spilled Coors Light,

a trail of his clothing leading from him to his girlfriend, one sock still clinging to his left foot, the other just escaped,

and the bed he was supposed to sleep in soaked through with urine, comforter thrown on the floor?

What house was he in anyway? He’s been sewing his life together more and more from fragments like these.