He walks slightly, very, drunk, with his head down and his hands in his pockets. His coat collar is turned up against the cold and he wears sunglasses despite it being three in the morning.
His shoes scrape against the pavement. He looks around him and is reminded that he is walking alone. He continues to walk.
He feels tired, so he stops. He sits on the curb and rubs his eyes beneath his sunglasses. He pulls his sunglasses off and throws them to the ground, as if only now has he realised the ridiculousness of them. He laughs and shakes his head. The laugh and the look of anger on his face is jarring.
He sits until he is too cold not to move. He pulls himself up and continues to walk, slouched against some unseen weight.
He reaches his home. He attempts to fit the key in the lock. He fails. He puts his back against the door and slides to the ground. He clears his head by banging it against the door.
Then he stands up. Again. And tries the door. Again.