There's a girl in the mirror but they don't seem like the sort to be very helpful right now. Their makeup has gone everywhere too. He tries to speak, but her throat closes up all tight from the tears. Another round of laughter. All you want right now is to be having fun, but the fun you want is impossible to find, not on tap, long since dried up, out of town, illegal or immoral or outlawed. Perhaps the fun you require only exists in the world of forms and can't be experienced at all.

Bzzzzzzzzz. Lightbulb buzzing. Bath is cold. You long to go outside. Go home? Maybe. Maybe not. Your eyes scan the room and see a little corner of pink.

You unfold yourself from the bath (and wow it's getting cold as you sober up), and step onto the half sodden bathmat. Wet socks now, but you don't care just yet. The little corner of pink is something papery wedged behind the toilet.

A magazine? No, the paper is rough and soft, the text hand-rendered. Some kind of independent publication? The front bears a monochrome image of a figure in a leather jacket and jeans, cropped from the waist down to focus on an impressive array of belts and chains. Where the knees would be reads, in cartoonish pink lettering,

Looking for someone?