“I’m not tired anymore.”
I looked at him and smiled.
“We should go to a bar and get me drunk.”
“Yeah, I have nothing going on tomorrow, and I’ve been meaning to try it.”
“So where do we go?”
“I vote my apartment because we have booze.”
I was wearing my black salsa dress and my sexy new black dancing shoes. I’d straightened my hair earlier and I hadn’t known what to say when someone implied I was going on a date.
He poured some drink and apple juice into a cup for me. Two shots, with a straw. I drank a sip and grimaced. But then I finished the entire thing. And one more shot for good measure.
“I’m not drunk. See, I can walk in a straight line!”
“I’m surprised you can, actually.”
I flopped down on the couch and rested my head on his lap.
“You’re really nice. And I would say that even if I weren’t drunk.”
“You’re really nice too.”
I dropped something on the floor. What it was I can’t remember, but when I got down on my hands and knees to pick it up, I collapsed in a heap on the carpet.
“I think I need to throw up…”
As he handed me the wastebasket I considered putting my fingers down my throat to speed up the process, but luckily I restrained myself. The sour odor of vomit filled my nostrils as I heaved up some of the alcohol. He gently pulled my hair out of my face.
“It was all worth it!”
He got a blanket and put it over me. And then we lay down on the floor and I just tried to forget about the swelling sensation that was my head.
I forget what we talked about. Did we talk at all? I was spinning and all I can remember is that his hand was around my waist, his fingers intertwined with mine.
“Want to move?” he asked.
I was thinking the couch.
He got up and started moving things off his bed. I crawled over and somehow managed to hop in, even though every part of my body felt like it weight a thousand pounds.
He climbed in next to me and again put his hand around my waist.
“I guess I’d better not throw up any more,” I whispered.
“You’ll be okay.”
I didn’t sleep. I was in a twilight state, aware of my surroundings because the adrenaline was keeping me awake, but I could barely move. His hand softly stroked my leg, all the way up to my thigh.
I felt safe. I felt protected. I felt loved in a way that made my spine tingle.
Somehow when I left the next morning, I was unkissed. How do you spend the night sleeping next to someone who is clearly flirting with you and not kiss them? How do you spend three hours of the morning talking with that person in the same bed, now knowing that she likes you even when she’s sober, and not kiss her? How does she get away with pressing her forehead against yours and slightly nudging you upward… without you kissing her??
Getting drunk was worth it. I’ll never do it again.