Do inebriates simply bathe in the booze they drink?

Is that why the Friday fog is so heavy around them?

Or is their hand-eye coordination so altered by drink that they miss their mouth and mop spills up with their shirt?

It’s funny, because despite those missed steps, slurred speech and leering eyes, the drunken man manages to find the perfect place on my thigh to place his hand.

I shriek so loudly the driver stops the bus. The force rips the animal’s hand from my leg and I watch his drunken friends fall like dominoes, while the sober grip whatever they can. Girls sit closer to me and as soon as my stop comes my sisters disperse.

From In Transit, by leaf jerlefia

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