Pig started drinking at noon on Saturdays, if he’d eaten a good breakfast and washed the dishes and didn’t have any plans for the rest of the day.
It was halfway through the third beer, almost two hours after opening the first, when he felt at his best, when the ideas rolled fast down his arms, transformed into words as his finger tapped at the keys.
Exhilaration, inspiration, joy.
When he opened the fourth, his thoughts cramped, his fingers tensed, would no longer respond, sentences blurred and sputtered, crashed, and died.
But for a moment, somewhere in the middle he…