Fucking vodka.
I am slowly becoming aware of white porcelain, cold and hard against my forehead. What was his name again? Jeremy? Joe? Either way, I seemed to have vomited in his bathroom.
Fucking vodka.
Through my haze I see hands, propping me into a sitting position against the wall. “How drunk are you, scale of one to five? Show me your fingers.”
I cautiously try out the flexibility in my fingers. I have none. After what I in a sober state would have called careful deliberation, I simply give her the one finger I’m able to. It speaks volumes, either way.
Fucking vodka.
“Yeah, fuck you too. You’ve really stunk up Ritchie’s bathroom now.”
Where the hell did I come up with Joe? I try not to move, contenting myself with repeating the hand gesture. She sighs and sits down next to me.
“You know, Fuckhead, this is just sad.”
I wince. Fuckhead. How many people actually have “Fuckhead” as a legitimate nickname? But I have earned it, and gradually even come to appreciate it. Not now though. Now I am for some reason thinking of the anatomical meaning of the nickname, visualizing it. Something I really don’t want to think about right now.
Fucking vodka.
“Rose, hate to bother you and all, but I think I need to crash for a while, and it’s gonna have to be right here.”
She sighs again, gets up and comes back with a pillow. She lays me down, suddenly gentle as a mother with her infant. Rose. You have to love her.
She kisses my forehead and gives my shoulder a light squeeze before getting up and walking to the door. I feel bad now.
“Hey, Rose?”
“Yeah?”
Hesitation.
“…If I drown in my own vomit, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
I’m not looking at her, but I know that she’s smiling.
“Yeah, right. Sleep it off, okay?”
Rose. She’s my kind of gal.


Fucking vodka.