Roger stood in his local supermarket. Alone. And after midnight.
A low point. Probably his lowest.
He yearned for a fifth of something strong but didn’t have the cash. Or the credit. His recent foray into the options market had been a bloodbath.
Roger grabbed a plastic jug. It glowed neon yellow. At least it was cheap.
Then she appeared. His boozy little angel from above.
She cracked a bottle of bourbon and poured two fingers.
“Trade ya,” she smiled, handing over her cup.
He poured his lemonade. They locked eyes then clinked cups.
It was love at first pour.
The Weekday One Hundred 