The sun was shining in full force, diminishing my apartment somehow. The glare of the sun made the leather furniture look cheap, like some synthetic plastic. It highlighted the rings and stains on the glass coffee table. I could see all the lint and dirt on the white carpet. My eyes felt glued shut. My mouth tasted like an ashtray. I tried to figure out what time it was based on the position of the sun in the sky.

I sat up, the change of position causing an almost blinding flash of pain to shatter my head. I closed my eyes against it and leaned back weakly. I was too old for this. What was I doing?

I sat up again, slower, treating myself like a delicate piece of china that might just shatter into a billion pieces. I took the slow steps to the kitchenette to get my coffee, a sip of juice, and a Tylenol. The way my head felt, like a drum turned inside out, like a corrugated metal tin drum with all those dents in it, I might need a bottle of Tylenol.

It was mornings like this, the sun shining like a recrimination, the fuzz on my tongue thick like fur, the shadowy half knowledge of what I might or might not have done filtering in slowly, mornings like this I swear I’ll stop. I’ll stop the drinking and the drugs, I’ll stop the sick games, the power trips. Sometimes I just want to wake up and feel good, not like I was run over by a truck.

I had a cup of coffee and clung to it like it was some life raft, and I was deep in the sea. I sat on the black leather couch and flipped the T.V. on. The way the sun shone on the T.V. screen made my head hurt even more and I groaned. Every cell was dry. I had that thirst, that insatiable hung over thirst.

After a cup of caffeine and three extra strength Tylenols I was feeling marginally better, almost well enough to take a shower. I made my slow way across my apartment, the clang of the coffee cup in the stainless sink causing a slight reverberation in my head. I clung to the smooth wall as I made my way from kitchenette to bathroom. I hung in the doorway, my black tiled bathroom oddly soothing. Maybe it was because there were no windows and all that smooth blackness with its muted reflections. The cool wall felt good beneath my hand.

My cell phone rang off its hook. I saw it vibrating on the coffee table, jangling against the glass. I held my head and took a step toward it, then another.

“Hello?” I said, my voice a low growl.

“Leo, Jesus, are you just waking up?” It was my assistant, Ian.

“Uh, no, of course not. Why?” I held the phone to my head and made my way back to the bathroom slowly, lest I should splatter intoxicated molecules all over my plush carpet.

“Look, I’m just your assistant, not your mother, okay? But you have a pretty full calendar today. You have that meeting with the record execs from the states, you have your appointment at that spa on Humboltdt Street , you know the one…you have a meeting with Jakalope and that kid from that band there, what the hell’s his name? Craig…yeah. So you have all that to do and you’re just getting up, aren’t you?”

Ian had this way of grating on my last nerve, of scraping the insides of my head raw. And I’d forgotten about that meeting with Craig.

“Yeah, uh, no. Don’t worry, I’m on top of it,” I said, hanging up as the events of last night crept back in the fractured fashion of these things. Jesus, I’d attacked the kid. I was only getting snippets. I saw him hugging his knees, his eyes red, the tears. I saw myself hitting him, kissing him, all caught up in those beautiful eyes and the trauma that was so tantalizing with him, all that trauma just below his surface. Would he even show?

I shook that thought off. It didn’t matter. If he didn’t I’d just go into any club in Toronto or Vancouver or Calgary, Winnipeg, anywhere, and scoop up another delicious kid with a decent voice and a hint of promise. It didn’t matter. Nothing hinged on him. So fuck him.

The coffee had fully kicked in, the Tylenol helped, and my body had enough time to replace the lost fluids that by noon I was feeling better, less ravaged, just lightly bruised. My appointment with Craig hung over my head, and I wondered if he’d really show up or not. I hated that he had me thinking like this. I didn’t want other people to have this sort of sway over my thoughts. Every time the thought crept in I banished it. If he showed up for the damn meeting then he did, if not oh fucking well.

My meeting with the states’ execs went fine, par for the course. My spa appointment, a nice rejuvenating message, got rid of the last aches and pains of my hangover. I felt ready to face things again. Ian was busy typing up my letters and e-mailing them away, fetching me coffee, keeping things straight. I smiled my sinister little smile on the message table, getting a glimpse of Ian. Slender kid, early twenties, baby fine reddish blond hair and dark little eyes. I could never tell if he was straight or what way he swung. Didn’t matter. I couldn’t fuck with Ian. I needed him too much. He kept shit straight, and when I didn’t show up somewhere he smoothed it over with the convincing excuses. I needed him.

Dressed after my message, sipping a foamy latte Ian had been so thoughtful to provide, I paid my bill and followed Ian to the waiting car.

“C’mon, we’re almost late. You don’t want to keep Jakalope waiting,” Ian, faggy little nag, God love him. I nodded and followed him into the waiting car idling at the curb, watching him juggle papers on his smart dress slacks lap.

The office building loomed, all blue glass and steel shooting straight into the sky. The car rode as smooth as a ship on calm seas, and I serenely sipped my coffee. I felt the stomach twisting anticipation at seeing Craig again. Searching out the hurt in his eyes. I ignored the ice cold fear that he left, left me and the deal and British Columbia all together. I closed my eyes, seeing a map of my own veins and the red glow of my closed lids. Had I hurt him enough to make him go away?

Inside the room, the windows looking blankly out on the city spread below, the bored faces of the Jakalope people, and no Craig. Ian scanned the room for him. He had lists of all my meetings and of everyone who should attend, and the panic started to fill his little black eyes. He raised his trimmed eyebrows at me and I read his mind, ‘where is he?’

I shrugged, not caring, rubbing a hand over my stylish stubble. I didn’t give one shit. Ian looked at his list again, looked around the room, at the door in desperate hope that Craig Manning would suddenly appear but I stayed cool. I was a cucumber, baby.

The head Jakalope guy, a sturdy little fucker in his late fifties, glanced at his expensive wristwatch.

“Where’s your golden boy, Leo?” he said, and I remained calm despite the flutters of panic trying to tear my thoughts away. He left, he left, he was serious. I’d pushed him too far. Ian looked at the door in a beseeching way, willing Craig to appear.

More glances at watches from the Jakalope execs, and Ian looked at me with dawning knowledge and horror. He knew me. He knew my capacity for fucking things up.

“Uh, Leo,” Ian started, ready to pull me aside and grill me, when the door to the office cracked open and Craig stepped inside. The relief that flooded me was bittersweet, and I saw it echoed on the faces of everyone there. Goddamn it, was shit riding on this kid? A fucked up little musician from Toronto? Was this really the case?

Craig looked rough, to say the least. He was in the same clothes as last night, and they were wrinkled, stained with alcohol and blood. He hadn’t shaved and the slight stubble gave him a derelict look, and his eyes, his eyes. He glanced at me and when he did I sucked in my breath and looked away.