Laying on the couch, he childishly turned his head back and forth while clutching the cotton blanket to his chest. His head hurt.

She turned another page of her novel, ignoring him. She had not one ounce of sympathy, she thought irritatingly. He deserves every booming nerve ending after last night.

She had come down to the club and scraped him off the curb in a drunken fog. Fending off his gropes with a sharp shove, she managed to get him home and poured out onto the couch. But that was as far as her empathy would reach.

He is going to be so sorry, she grinned to herself.