A hangover was a small price to pay for a few hours of hope. Jack thought that while ordering his "over the line" drink, the one he knew would lead to three or four addtional drinks. He had a solid awareness of his situation, his urge, his desire. The urge of his divine discontent he once called it when he was young and writing and full of spit and laughter. Before the thickening came, and the sad repition of work and loneliness wore the eyars away. He sipped his rye and played with the skin that was weirdly peeling from the knuckle of his left ring finger, noted the irony that it was the marriage finger, but dismissed it as being a Feburary condition of some sort. Weird things happen to the body during Canadian Feburarys. He peeled the skin off and left little piles of it on the bar. he calculated the days left until spring and counted the money left in his pocket. He had enough for four more drinks, unless a woman came along.