Hafford III: The Trees

I drove out to the crooked trees on Monday night and got drunk. By myself. A couple Dabs and a flask of gin. I really like German beers.

I passed out on the wooden path that carries you under the trees, while staring up at a particularly gnarly branch.

I barely made it to work on time, waking up freezing with the sun in my eyes and racing into town. Mr. Hung laughed at me and picked some grass off my jacket when I walked in. I work three days a week as a cook at Hung's Chinese Restaurant.

"You go to the trees again last night?" he queried while I started up the oven. I think I might've blushed. He jabbed me in the ribs and laughed. "You drink too much Mr. Wilk-ah-son. You need a girl."

All I could see was the twist of branches fracturing the sky.