|
It wasn't the sunrise that woke Bennie up... it wasn't the boat-horns, or the shift-whistles that went off every morning at eight; no, it was the almost-empty bottle of Thunderbird that finally tipped out of Bennie's hand when he shifted his other arm to better cushion his head on the table, causing its contents to flow across the table and soak his arm liberally... and even then, Bennie laid there for the better part of half an hour before his subconscious finally responded to the expanding chill and wetness in the fabric of his shirt and roused him from his stupor.
|