For the first ten minutes or so, he had been trying - unsuccessfully - to reconstruct the events of the previous night from the small fragments of memory he could muster. But fairly early on - sometime before midnight, he guessed - things became an incomprehensible blur. Лёва didn't remember drinking much vodka, so it was probably the Absinthe that was to blame. Though, of course, he realized the ultimate culprit was, as always, himself.
The cold air's grip on his knee grew uncomfortable, and Лёва shifted around again, exposing the elbow this time. No matter how he sat, he couldn't quite manage to stay completely warm and comfortable for long. He vaguely regretted not closing the bathroom window before stumbling into the shower, but climbing out to do it now was out of the question. He wondered if he could just spend the entire day in here.
As they always did in situations like this, words came unbidden, signaling that Лёва's synapses started talking to each other again:
"Беспощадная лапа Ноябрьского холода залезла под дверь душевой..."
Ah. Here was a reason to get out.