Hugh's cell phone alarm went off for the fourth time. He finally cracked open his eyes and swiped the screen to shut it off, groaning when he registered the time: twenty minutes until he had to be pulling out of the driveway and on his way to work.
He rubbed sleep from his bleary eyes and ran a hand along his jawline. He would need to shave before leaving for work. He kicked off the sheet he was tangled in and slowly slid his body off the bed and onto the floor. He slithered to a sitting position and tried to wish away the pounding headache of his hangover.
With a groan he stood up and headed for the kitchen. He flipped on the electric kettle and paused while he tried to remember where he had left his travel mug. It was at the bottom of the sink full of dirty dishes. He flipped off the electric kettle. He would just have a coffee at work rather than mess with dirty dishes in his current state. He gingerly walked down the hallway to the bathroom, trying not to jostle his aching head more than necessary.
In the bathroom, he turned on the shower and pulled his shirt over his head, wincing when he got a whiff of his armpits. He peeled off his black skinny jeans and was disappointed in himself that he had worn them to bed. He stepped into the hot shower. His junk was stifled from sleeping in tight pants; his eyelids felt like they had sand under them. He reached out from behind the shower curtain to grab a bottle of mouthwash from the sink vanity. He gargled it while he shampooed his hair then spit it down the shower drain and started a quick soap of the crucial areas: junk, armpits, feet. He paused to lean his forehead against the tile wall as a wave of nausea hit him.
"Ironic. That I'm too old to be puking in the shower but I never would have been this hungover when I was younger." He mused aloud.
He squirted body wash over his shoulders and let the hot water wash it down his body. He turned off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and fished around the medicine cabinet for the painkillers. He took one more than the recommended amount. One can adjust the dosage when one is a doctor, he thought smugly.
He glanced at his phone. The battery was almost drained but he couldn't remember where he left his phone charger and didn't have time to look for it. He commenced a speedy shave.
"Fuck," He swore when he nicked his neck with the razor. "Siri! Remind me to get an electric razor" he spoke to his phone. The phone had died and didn't register his request.
Done shaving, he rubbed a dollop of hair gel through his damp hair so that it would dry in a way that didn't scream "hungover" to his patients. He raced into the bedroom to throw on some clothes and realized he was due to be pulling out of the driveway 3 minutes ago. Boxer-briefs, socks, dark blue jeans, belt, black undershirt...he hesitated at the closet door-black or navy button down? Which would give the impression that he was a mature professional and not irresponsibly hungover? Must be black, right? He pulled it on but left the buttons for when he would inevitably be stuck at the red light on the High Street.
He spritzed on a last second decision of cologne in case he still smelled like tequila and stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. At the front door he grabbed his key and wallet from the hall table and rushed out, slamming the front door behind him. He opened it again immediately to grab his darkest Ray Bans from the hall table.
There better be a fresh pot of coffee in the staff room, he prayed to himself, locking the door and jogging to his car.