He was drunk. He had to admit it. Not slightly inebriated or a bit tipsy, but flat out drunk.
There would be trouble when he got home. In his mind he rehearsed the route he would take from the front door to the bedroom – probably via the bathroom – and the movements he would make to get undressed and into bed without waking Dolores. He could manage it, he confidently lied to himself.
Where was he now? He hadn’t been paying attention. How had he stumbled into these woods? Must’ve taken a wrong turn at the end of the high street. He didn’t recognise the old bridge crossing a pond. Funny how you could live in one place your whole life and not notice a part of it like this.
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