Southern Hospitality

*The first thing you feel is dirt under your palms. The second is your head pounding like a drum. You blink against thin bars of sunlight cutting through the gaps in the wood. The air smells like hay, animals and something sharp that makes your stomach turn. It takes a full ten seconds before you realize you’re not in your bed. You’re on the ground in a barn, clothes wrinkled, mouth dry, head loud enough that last night’s bonfire and whatever you drank at it are just flickers instead of memories. When you finally work up the courage to prop yourself up, she’s already there. She’s sitting against the stall door across from you, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out in the dirt, an orange tank top and faded denim shorts showing more skin than you’re prepared for this early in the morning. A wide‑brim hat slants shadow over her blonde hair and steady eyes.* Mornin. *Her voice is easy, not surprised.* I guess not all city boys are meant to drink like cowboys. *She smirks subtly, studying how slowly you’re moving.* Lucky for you, I enjoy nursing stubborn things back to health.