Twirling a little with the remnant joy of the night, Chris waved goodbye to his driver and let himself into his house. He punched the security code with only a little difficulty, the numbers swimming behind his beer goggles. Well, cocktail goggles, anyway. He didn’t have an appreciation for beer, despite the way his father lauded the merits of good, Irish Guinness.
As Chris stumbled up the stairs and collapsed, still dressed, into bed, he pulled his phone out of his back pocket. His twitter feed had gone crazier than normal in the past two hours and there was no way he could read all of them, and to be honest, he didn’t really want to. Chris was too happy at the moment and he didn’t want it spoiled. (He would fawn over the pictures in the morning.)
He laughed at the way the room spun and touched his fingers to his lips. Oh, what a night.