“The sky’s spinning.” Ruprik eyed the gaudy carnival canopy above him through narrowed eyes. Cold from the cobblestones seeped into his back. He untwisted his arm from the legs of an overturned chair and pulled the damp tablecloth across his shoulders. His friend Chauncey lay nearby.
Chauncey hazarded a glance but squeezed his eyes shut. Despite the ice-bucket stuck on his left foot, he curled himself into the fetal position. “That hideous light must mean it’s morning.”
“Drinking was involved. I recall having sherry on the veranda.”
“Odd,” said Ruprik, “I’m sure I had her in the kitchen.”
This past weekend found us in St. Louis at Tartan Days, a Scottish celebration. We didn’t wake up on the ground at the festival, but it was a near miss. The next morning, I did find a mysterious slice of pita bread in my pocket and I had the distinct impression I’d been dancing in an unseemly manner. No pictures or YouTube videos have surfaced, so it may not have happened. Many of you have mentioned that you automatically discard your first impression and I heartily agree, but this picture had only one meaning to me.