Disclaimer: This piece is for a more adult audience than some of the things I have written in the past.

Dried vomit is not the first thing you want to taste in the morning. I lick my lips again, wishing I’d burned my taste buds on the alcoholic hot chocolate last night. My feet squish in the cold liquid as I step out of bed. Why didn’t I pass out by the toilet?

As I slip on the bathroom tiles, I pull off my t-shirt. Shit. Where’s my underwear?

Unprepared to blind myself with the lights, my hand fumbles for the shower knobs in the dark. I twist the one for hot water and let it warm up before getting in. The water washes the crusted vomit from my hair and pours over my shoulders. The steam fills my lungs and soothes my splitting headache. Ok, what did I do last night?

I remember my girl friends coming over to get ready. We had wine before we went out, pretending we’d keep it classy. But we went from my house to the club. There was this guy there who we’d decided had the best jaw and really defined arms. He offered to buy us all a round of drinks. Did he come back with me? How did I get home?

The light snaps on, bringing the pounding headache back. “What the hell?”

The handsome club dude jumps when he sees me. “What’re you doing in my shower?”

My eyes squint at the body wash bottle in my hand. It’s dark green with some manly name like Forest Musk. The bright bathroom is the mirror image of mine, everything reversed. “I’m sorry. I got sick in your bed.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I made your friend sleep between us.”

“My friend? Did anything happen last night?”

He warps a towel around his lower half. “Do you mind?”

“Sorry.” I turn the water off and go back to the bedroom to gather my clothes. My best friend, Wendy, is spread eagle taking up the entire bed.

She pulls the covers over her head. “Why are you people so loud?”

I put on my t-shirt and roll her onto her side. “Have you seen my underwear and jeans?”

She giggles and hands me boxers. “What happened last night?”

“Those aren’t mine.” I grab her arms and pull her into a sitting position. “We should leave.”

She yanks her arm away. “I got it.” Standing up, she bends over to touch her toes, flashing me with my own bright orange panties.

 

Fiction

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