The wretched pounding in his head had gone on for what seemed like hours before he realized it was outside his parlor as well as in. What time was it, anyway? He opened a bleary eye to see last night’s Cateau Mouton inexplicably aslant in the glass on his bedside table.
“Mr. Alderschoff. Mr. Alderschoff, are you in there?”
Mr. Alderschoff closed his eyes and reassembled the evening in his mind. What had started as manhattans in the Smoking Lounge had turned into a dozen or more bottles of wine. And then, champagne.
He’d made it to dinner, but midway through the roast squab, he’d had to excuse himself. With an ungainly hiccup, he’d plucked his wineglass by the stem. “If you ladies please…” He broke off. He’d intend to suggest he was off to the smoking parlor for a fine cigar, but the velocity of the spinning dining room was threatening to bring up the first three courses of the ten-course meal. Then, the blur of falling on the grand staircase and staggering into Mrs. Brown in the hall outside his state room.
Enough with the liquor and nonsense, he decided. Last night was the last time he’d do that.
His eyes shot open at the shout that accompanied the next knock: “Mr. Alderschoff, we’ve hit an iceberg!”
This has been an edition of Sunday Photo Fiction prompt, hosted by Al Forbes. To read more flash fiction based on the prompt, or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button: