And so it came to pass on the morning following The Greatest Night of My Life™, I awoke on a mattress near the ocean, roused by the sounds of crashing waves and the smell of beer and perfume. It was the first morning in recent memory that had actually felt like Autumn: cold, quiet, calm...and utterly confusing.
I lay quiet for some time, not entirely sure how to unentangle myself from this intricate weave of arms, legs, breasts and hair. A slight chill managed to sneak in between the cracks of the blankets; little giggles and groans could be heard as we unconsciously drew closer for warmth. I let my eyes wander from face to face in a futile effort to assign each a name before settling on the blonde thing on my stomach, who seemed to respond to words containing the letter S.
"Hello?" I whispered, "Sss..Sarah?" I gently patted her head.
She stirred and sighed, murmured something indiscernable before looking up to meet my eyes. She rested her chin on my sternum as she let out a tiny "Hi." The area around her eyes was dark with mascara -- black streaks traversed either side of her face. Her lips looked chapped at the edges and her voice sounded raspy.
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"I really don't want to go to work..." she croaked.
"Oh."
In a single motion she rolled off my chest and wrapped herself in linen. I listened as she got up and stumbled away, her irregular footsteps disappearing into the house.
I sat up, starry-eyed but squinty, watching the clouds float by as I retraced the events of the evening prior. Sometime in the night a fog had settled over my mind, and I struggled to regain my bearings.
How did I get here?
Looking down I spied my feet clothed in green argyle socks. It was the only part of me that was still dressed. I brought my hand up to my eyes and realized I had left my glasses on while I slept. The mental image I formed was enough to send me into a fit of hysterics -- I felt classy as fuck.
My cigarettes were the first articles recovered. Someone had stuffed the pack into one of my shoes, and then separated the pair. The shoe with the cigarettes sat by the bed, while the other lay propped in the doorway of the bathroom. (Why anyone would go through the trouble is beyond me.)
I got dressed as I found my clothes strewn about the house. First a shirt, then my jacket and boxers and finally pants. Midway through someone remarked that the shirt-and-socks-only combo was "effective if unorthodox." I don't remember who it was. I'm pretty sure it was a dude, though.
It was hard not to feel good about myself. In between the singing and dancing and drinking and drugging, I managed to achieve levels of toxicity most consider fatal for my weight class. And I woke up with four women. With so many good things thrown my way, it was only a matter of time before I was cast off my cloud and sent hurdling back to the pits of mortal existence.
A few days later I found out that "a friend" had taken Alice home for me. At first the news came as a relief -- her whereabouts had been unknown and I was starting to get worried -- but the feeling quickly soured into disgust and later pity. I was sorry for her. Over the course of the evening she had been passed along like a baton in a relay race, and part of me was just glad I didn't have to complete the final leg. What would it be like, I wondered, if we ever saw each other again? Would I apologize? Would she? Maybe grab a cup of coffee and carry on as if nothing happened? Would we even speak to each other?
Why does this even matter to me?