I step out into the rain, an hour or two past unsteady. The half-empty bottle lists carelessly in my limp hand, and I pay no mind to it until it shatters against the sidewalk. Shit, I thought. There goes another bottle of booze.
Stepping and swaying over the shards, I tried to ignore the fact there were at least a pile of seven, now. All had that same grey, rain-faded label that of Grey Skies. I was the only one who drank Grey Skies, anymore. Too cheap. Too watered down. Too whatever else the customers wanted to complain about today.
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