Leo laughed out loud. For months, he had been blaming the heavens for something earthly. He had anthropomorphized a buoy into a drunken failure.
Leo was a perfectionist. Every night, he’d stand on his balcony, gaze up at the sky, and curse the one faint star just above the eastern ridge. It wobbled. Unlike the others—steady, sharp, reliable—this star dipped and swayed as if it had stumbled home from a long night. mydrunkenstar.com
“You’re a mess,” Leo whispered, sipping his whiskey. “My drunken star.” Leo laughed out loud