I wake up on the floor. Not hungover, but buck naked like whiskey was in my recent past. And I am in suburban Detroit. I don’t remember being on a flight.
There is someone’s pink robe, but it doesn’t cover everything. There is also a blanket for a makeshift kilt. That will make the apology for why I am there in the first place, not to mention au natural go smoother. It can’t hurt.
The reaction is more “oh no, not again” than “oh baby.” It’s not abject horror, so there’s that.
Go find your pants and watch my dog.
OK, this is more the last years of marriage than whiskey night in Vegas. Time to wake up. Time to be glad that it was a “where’s my pants” redux and not a “why are you standing over me watching me sleep? And how did you get into my house?” Otherwise known as the night before.