He has no idea of the time or how long he’s slept. He’d be sleeping still if the weight in his bladder hadn’t pulled at his dreams and woken him in the night.
He slits his eyes, a crack to the dark, shuttered room. The room spins and tilts, so he closes them again. How many he sunk tonight, he won't guess at.
Gingerly rocking one knee over the other, he shifts in a feeble attempt to turn. It’s like he’s bobbing in an uncertain boat on an uncertain sea. He tries again, hitches his leg higher and rolls, but where he expects the bed to be there’s only air and he falls.
The floor is hard, unforgiving, not receptive like water might be. He groans though the tiles are caressingly cool. He might just sleep here but his bladder sirens again and grunting, he lurches onto his hands and knees and lists sideways until he hits the wall. Uncertain what to do next and he sways for a while, fishing for thoughts until in a flash of inspiration, he flattens his hands to the plaster, teasing one over the other to haul himself along.
When he finds the door, he’ll be able to stand. When he can stand, he’ll be able to piss. He shuffles along until he feels the ridge of a door frame, slides his hand up, feels the door handle, grips for purchase and heaves up to his feet.
He could cheer! Raise a glass and celebrate but he tugs at his pants and eyes still closed, aims at where the toilet should be.
The relief. The glorious pissing, the stream, the river, the whole bloody sea as he empties pint after pint after pint. Hosing onto his clothes and filling his boots.
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