A tableful of empty margarita glasses cluttered the speckled kitchen table. Elmo sat, puffy tear-stained cheeks propped in his hands.
“I want to be alone,” he said in his best Garbo imitation. Nothing could lift today’s cloudy skies nor his spirits. … not even if the temperatures were in the middle 60s. “Tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. …” Elmo muttered in his drunken stupor. Perhaps tomorrow’s likely chance of rain could wash away his misery. His heart felt like the temperature, with a high in the upper 40s. Good thing the liquor would keep him warm. …