It hadn't been a good week for Michael. He had left home on the morning with the metallic taste of angry words in his mouth, left work on the afternoon with notice of redundancy screwed up and stuck in his pocket, and arrived back home again to find a note on the kitchen worktop and empty spaces in the wardrobes. He drank quite a lot and then went round to his friend Darren's house, looking for a shoulder to cry on. They had grown up together, best friends since primary.
"I'm sorry," Darren said, but didn't move from the door to let Michael in. Michael frowned and staggered a bit where he stood, and then the lightbulb moment came, and he took a swing at Darren, missed, and Darren hit him once in the gut, hard, and Michael collapsed to the floor in a puddle of sick and shame and anger. Behind Darren he saw a dark figure, waiting down by the kitchen, her arms crossed.
When he got home he drank some more, and he drank until he dragged himself into work the next morning. He lasted an hour before a crushing headache and the unwise decision to tell people what he thought of them, and then he dragged himself home again and threw the redundancy letter in the bin because it didn't apply any more, not since the on the spot dismissal for gross misconduct. It was OK though, because he had a new letter to read when he got home, this one from the landlord giving them notice to quit because they were behind with the rent, and besides, the Olympics were coming and the place would make a fortune if he could let it out.
Michael wandered back into the town. He felt strange and weightless, at least until he bumped into things. And he bumped into a lot of things, from then on.