Shouting bothers Al when she's in more of a cocktail mood than a beer one. She wakes with a snort, mind snapping back into place from the countless glasses she'd just been seeing. Where--? No sports bar, no stadium. Not even a frat house. Just a never-used kitchen which smells like cigars.
Oh, good.
The edges are still blurry; Al won't remember getting to her feet or how she found the cigarette in her mouth, nonetheless how she lit the damn thing. She just remembers drawing herself back together one moment, standing in the living room the next. Hip cocked, fists at her waist, smoke curls from her nostrils.
"Shut up, T. You're giving all the hangovers something to cry about."