My phone vibrated extremely late at night. Two words.
Come over.
Only there was a few extra letters in there. It might have actually read Cone overs. T9 may save time, but you have to at least get Velma on the case half of the time for drunk texts. Then I looked at who it was from. It wasn’t Kara, and it wasn’t Nicole, or it wasn’t the myriad of other 80 something girls that had my number (in only the literal sense). I mulled it over. Twenty four hours prior I couldn’t stand to be with people, and now I couldn’t stand to be alone.in my apartment when half my calls were going straight to voicemail.
I walk in and she’s in a pair of plaid blue boxers with a joint on her lips, and three-quarters of a bottle of absinthe on her coffee table. I asked about her roommate, who was out on a date. And she shoved the bottle in front of me.
No chasers?
What fun is that?
I took a large swig, and coughed almost immediately. This was something I wasn’t used to. She laughed at me, and took the bottle, dead eyed, and straight-faced drinking. No grimacing, no sour lips, just tranquil Taylor. She offered me the joint and I waved it off taking attempt two at the bottle. And then I discovered the non-sourness to be something reminiscent of burnt cranberries.
And this time I didn’t get the pang of guilt, just dead butterflies. I hear a lot of about my drinking and what I’m trying to do with this hole thing, and on day 85 I was just trying to get through it. Not in a bad way, but I just wanted to be oh so comfortably numb. Even when you build things up in your head, a lot of the time you get in your own way. You are always painfully aware that reality and expectations don’t align in perfect harmony. This wasn’t better, but it wasn’t worse. It was different. There comes a point where you just detach from yourself, and the things you are doing and just go through the motions and the moment. Suffice to say, there was sex and a five AM solo subway moment.
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