Day

You're a guy, and the smell of alcohol has become familiar to you. It's a subtle, pore-dwelling sillage: a mixture of last night's whiskey, morning coffee, and something tart and personal. It's become your alter ego.

You wake up on Saturday. You've slept well, your body feels pleasantly relaxed, and your thoughts are blissfully empty.

A call. A friend without preamble: — Let's go to the bar.

Familiar words. You agree.

The bar is dimly lit, voices hum, and heavy music plays. The first shot. The second. The third. Then time loses its shape.

You woke up on the street. Your friend was dragging you along, and you could barely move. The street was dark, the lights yellow. You were muttering something, but he wasn't even listening—he was just watching you to make sure you didn't fall.

There's a patrol car on the side of the road. Blue lights flash in the darkness. A drunken sense of stupidity boils inside you. You tug at your friend's sleeve, point, and shout loudly, for the whole street to hear:

• Oh, look! Cops! Scum...

A friend hisses: “Shut up, let’s go.” But it’s too late.

The uniformed figure has already separated from the car and is moving toward you. Heavy steps, a peaked cap, a calm, tired gaze.

“Well,” the voice was even, without anger. “Will you continue your story at the station?”