Missing 72 Hours

I awoke disheveled in midst of scruffy bedsheets, lavender, whiskey and stale weed. I reached for her, but she’d gone. Alone again.

Sighing, I reached for my pipe. But we’d smoked it all. I sucked the last drops from Glen Grant. What day is it? Outside, raining again.

Inside, I needed a shower. And something to eat. I stood woozily up and Oscar opened one eye to look at me disapprovingly. Shut up.

You’d think after 72 hours I wouldn’t get morning wood. Pulling on jeans, crossed the room to my dresser, but my wallet and Piaget were gone. Shit.