09 6 / 2011
Fiction
She wakes groggily, feeling the familiar dull ache of a hangover, intense around the eyes and the temple, making seeing difficult and rational thinking nearly impossible. Slightly opening her eyes, she’s greeted with another unfamiliar room. Steeling herself, she glances over her left shoulder, grateful that she was facing away this time, and did not wake up staring into a pair of unknown eyes which knew way too much after the night before. Still asleep, good, she thinks. She runs through her mental checklist as she glances around the room, trying to gather the hazy details.
Clothes are off but close by on the floor… right next to an open condom wrapper, so at least that’s something. Purse and cell phone are on the bedside table, another plus. Vaguely she remembers stumbling into the apartment, recalls that it isn’t too far from where she herself lives. A quick glance at the clock reassures her that if she can make a quick getaway, she’ll make it home before people will see her walking barefoot, heels in hand, in her too-short black dress. Quickly and quietly, she dresses, grabs her things, finds her shoes (one in the bathroom… what?) and slips out in the pre-light hours of the early morning.
She walks quickly, head bent down, glad she’s the only one witnessing her shame. She used to stick around the next morning, for awkward small talk and even awkwarder morning hook-ups where nothing seemed to gel or feel the way it had before. She used to wait to see the relief in the guy’s eyes as she turned toward the door, hoping that each time she would see something more. She used to fumble through dry cheek pecks, one-armed hugs, and empty promises of phone calls to come.
She’d given up on that, at least. She’s gotten very good at easing out before anyone even notices she’s gone; very good at running before there’s even something concrete to run from; very good at forgetting and moving sideways, but never moving on.
