Randy staggered home very late after another evening with his drinking buddies. He took off his shoes to avoid waking up his wife, Kathleen.
He tiptoed as quietly as he could toward the stairs leading to their upstairs bedroom, but misjudged the bottom step. As he caught himself by grabbing the banister, his body swung around and he landed heavily on his rump. A whiskey bottle in each back pocket broke and made the landing especially painful.
Managing not to yell, Randy sprung up, pulled down his pants, and looked in the hall mirror to see that his butt cheeks were cut and bleeding. He managed to quietly find a full box of Band-Aids and began putting a Band-Aid as best as he could on each place he saw blood.
He then hid the now almost empty Band-Aid box and shuffled and stumbled his way to bed.
In the morning, Randy woke up with searing pain in both his head and butt and Kathleen staring at him from across the room.
She said, ‘You were drunk again last night, weren’t you?’
Randy said, ‘Why would you say such a mean thing?’
‘Well,’ Kathleen said, ‘it could be the open front door, it could be the broken glass at the bottom of the stairs, it could be the drops of blood trailing through the house, it could be your bloodshot eyes, but mostly… it’s all those Band-Aids stuck on the hall mirror.’