The sun poked its fingers through the parted curtains to jab him in the eye. He got up to close the drapes and saw the sun just on the horizon, hanging low and red. As red as blood. With little pink clouds scattered across the sky. He pivoted and headed for the kitchen, moving quietly past Sharan’s closed bedroom door, still shaking his head over her early-morning return and assertion that Blake was here for a good time, not a long time. The guy had been pretty surprised to find Matt here and Matt could understand Blake’s confusion. He poured himself an orange juice and gave it a dollop of dark rum to take the edge off his morning. Then he rubbed his forehead, wincing at the pain there, and tossed back the pair of aspirin that were becoming part of his morning regimen. Tequila, he decided, was not a substance with which a man could have an enduring relationship. Banished to the veranda the night before when Sharan came home with her date, he’d taken the bottle of tequila for company and now regretted it.
