Streams of sun, filtering through the shades, fall across his face. He opens his eyes and tries to focus. Turning, he finds himself staring at an angel.

That's when the nausea hits.

Head splitting. The effort to remember the events of last night makes the pain worse.

The pre-party.
The Party.
Champagne.
Scotch.
Taquila.
Unaiza.
That's her name.
She doesn't drink. She didn't drink last night.
He was drunk. She wasn't.
.
.
.
In bed, naked.