And Back Again

The final descent comes with his head and weary eyes held in the hand that doesn't nurse the dwindling drink in its glass. Rubbing his temples, wiping his nose, he leans against the little plastic window to see what he dreaded-
Toronto. Home again, home again, and not for the best.
Table tray going up, the stewardess looks impatiently at the shoddy excuse for a mojito he clutches like a favoured child. No fresh mint on-board, and the lime juice is stale, but the rum still burns clean through the distaste.
"Almost done." He says in a feigned smile, which is returned with visible irritation. He doesn't want to have to chug it back, but it's certainly coming to that. This was his last drink ticket, and almost the last of the currency left in a wallet thinning faster than his hair. She marches off in a huff, reminding other passengers to secure their seatbelts and secure their luggage. He almost wants to peer out luridly into the isle to watch those stocking'ed high heels smoke down the length of the cabin, but he's too damn exhausted.
Without strength or will, he collapses again back into his seat, possessing only balance enough to keep the drink from spilling on a rumpled shirt. Hell of a thing to explain to customs, passport or not. As if being the only passenger on a red-eye flight to fit the flight's description. Shit, too many drink tickets and not enough altitude to keep the drunk out.
And now, back to the city that spawned him. Up-river, up-stream, and down the throat of the waiting bear. It'd be all too much to handle.
Well, it was.
His fingers tremble at still lips, wishing for a cigarette even after realizing he never smoked before. There had been cigars, back in the time before. Cigars, rum, and sunshine. Now, it would be LCBOs and pretend-spring with sleet on the side. He hadn't even gotten a tan to remember the place with.
Toronto, Toronto. Goddammit.