Warning: Sex implied
My eyelids are heavy and the sun is too bright. My pillow feels like it’s made of carved stone; jagged and abrasive, digging into my skull. Somehow I roll over to see what time it is and then I remember. The empty wine bottle on my bedside table taunts me with glaring obviousness. I remember this bottle wasn’t the only culprit. Its mate rolled under the sofa at some point during last night’s … what?
Am I alone? I groan as I turn again on my feather/cement pillow. I am.
I put my hand to my head as it all starts to come back to me.
We stumbled through my front door already three sheets to the wind. The conference had gone spectacularly, and since your plane couldn’t take off – and since we had hit it off – I offered to let you stay at my place. A fully booked hotel and a flooded airport reinforced in my alcohol-addled brain that it was meant to be.
All night, while we sat on my sofa, talking and laughing, my eyes were drawn back to the curled sticker on the floor just at the entrance to the room with “Hi, my name is: ________” and your name written on it, most likely in your own hand, but I lacked the fortitude to retrieve it, even with my lack of inhibition.
I remember wondering if I could still walk with any amount of grace when I got up to open our second bottle of wine. I reached for the corkscrew thinking I probably didn’t need any more liquid courage. You stared at my lips when I spoke.
When I turned, open bottle in my hand you were there, crowding me against the kitchen sink, your mouth poised to kiss. I stood on my toes to meet you and almost dropped the bottle.
How we consumed an entire litre of wine after that I can’t recall. Scenes come back to me like random video clips: staggering back to the sofa, moving the coffee table out of the way (that was when the empty bottle fell), me kneeling between your spread thighs while I imagined a drop of liquid suspended from the mouth of the prostrate bottle beneath the sofa. Me straddling you, my panties strewn over the screen of my silent laptop, and then you standing at the end of my bed, naked, talking a verbal inventory of my body while you readied yourself for yet another onslaught. Funny, that I remember that.
And as I lay alone in my bed this morning, my brain feeling as though it could escape through my ears, I wonder if I am worth as much as the sum of my parts. And I wonder what your name is.