The Grind

Paul’s head pounded as his alarm clock blared. He reached for it and knocked over the phone. Light stabbed his eyes as they opened. He threw the clock against the wall, but it kept ringing.
Monday mornings were the worst after a party weekend. Thinking death would be less painful than his hangover, he dressed for work, ate four Tylenol for breakfast, and called a cab. Every pothole was a new experience in pain, and the driver was adept at finding them.
It’s gonna be a long day.
He pulled on his lab coat that said, ‘Paul Hengstrom, Beer taster.’


Word count: 100


Featured in the "For Authors Newsletter (December 30, 2015)"