300 Days

300 Days

The last month had been a haze of dick and **** and liquor and dick. You clung to the porcelain bowl, the coolness relieving your headache. You pressed your cheek against it, then hovered over the water, retching into it again.

You'd been through half a dozen cities since Amanda had married Mustafa. How much of that was your inner whore ... how much of it was to experience as much as you could before ... the end ... and how much of it was a paroxysm into losing your beloved remained to be seen. But you wanted ... no, needed, to find out.