Igor was fast asleep. The steak had been good. Perfect.
Wine had been good, too. Pure pinot noir, round and almost sweet, almost decadent, almost bad. Just on the edge. Which is how he slept - and his dreams zoomed in and out of the black, the dark, the abyss, the nothingness, and they were jagged and sex pervaded their junctures.
When he woke it was early and birds were singing. He got up and made a cup of coffee and another one and sat on the porch and thought about people he would have to hurt to make things right. He thought about them carefully, clinically. He nodded to himself and got up, and walked to his truck.