Page 1 of Pour Decisions
1
My eyes have a hard time opening. Last night’s mascara holds my lashes together, making them stick like glue. I use my fingers to pry open the right, blinking rapidly to adjust to the light. It’s dim, but still an intrusion from the black void of a moment ago. My head raises and my left eye mimics the right. My vision blurred and hazy. A sea of white surrounds me, accompanied by the faint smell of sex, sweat, and bleach.
I’m not good with mornings. I don’t like them; they don’t like me. As though in testament to such, my stomach protests as I sit up slowly. Could be that its morning, could also result from too much alcohol and not enough food last night. My head spins as I take in the surrounding room. I’m in a hotel room, that much I remember. It’s a nice one, spacious and well furnished. One of those with separate bedroom and living room areas. A ceiling fan rotates above my head. I can’t recall ever seeing a ceiling fan in a hotel bedroom before.
Blackout curtains cover the window while the faint hum of the air conditioning dances around my ears. A quick peek under the sheets shows my naked body glaring back at me while snippets of last night’s festivities pepper through my mind. My girlfriend’s and I venturing out to the Villa Royale hotel for drinks. What started as a low-key happy hour stretched into four, then five. Or was it six?
Dancing. Oh god, so much dancing my legs ache.
I’d gotten word early afternoon about my nomination for the West Coast Winemaker’s Association (WCWA) Innovation Competition (WCWAIC). My friends Tess and Megan thought it would be a good idea to take me out for drinks and we came to the same hotel that is hosting the WCWAIC starting tonight. My face grins at the memories, my body stretches languorously, and my throat groans at how good it feels. All the parts working independently, yet simultaneously, while—
Oh. Wait.
My legs aren’t the only part of me that aches.
I trail my fingers down between my legs and push gently at the sore, swollen tissue, remembering how thoroughly and completely that delicious man fucked me last night. Multiple times if the condom wrappers on the nightstand are any sign.
Wait again.
The man.
I glance to the other side of the bed, relieved to find it empty. My sleep-addled brain finally catching up to the fact that the only light in the room is filtering through the cracked bathroom door, where the shower is running. And all the pieces come together in a linear fashion.
The competition.
My nomination.
Tess, Megan, and me celebrating.
Copious amounts of drinks.
The gorgeous guy.
All that dancing.
Fantastic sex.
Aw, fuck!
I need to go now before the guy gets out of the shower and we have to do that awkward morning after thing that everyone talks about. Where you don’t know if you should go to breakfast, maybe have sex again, trade numbers, or avert your eyes and go your separate ways. Not that I would know. This is my first one-night stand ever. But I’ve heard enough stories to be frightened.
I scramble from the bed and begin the hunt for my clothes. The room isn’t cluttered, far from it, but I’m still having a hard time identifying things. I grab my fishnet stockings and try to pull them on while standing.
Oh, they’re ripped.
Wow, really ripped.
Especially in the crotch.
Nicely done, Morgan.
I mentally pat myself on the back, before realizing I didn’t need them on anyway. What better way to make the proverbial walk of shame look even more embarrassing than by wearing the ripped stockings from the night before
I shove them along with my bra into my purse. Searching for my underwear while trying to zip the back of my dress at the same time. Right arm over my right shoulder, left arm bent behind my lower back and moving up from the bottom. Both trying in vain to reach the zipper pull or each other. Clearly, dresses were designed by sadist contortionists with no concern for how normal people dress in short amounts of time or otherwise.
Grabbing my shoes and purse in one hand, all the while holding the front of my dress to my chest, I quietly slip out the door into the hallway. Then toe on my shoes as I hit the elevator call button and continue to try unsuccessfully to zip my dress. The telltale ding signals the elevator car and the doors open to reveal a tall blonde woman in gym clothes, toweling non-existent sweat off her face, just as I’m pushing my heel into my shoe.
I nod my head as I enter, and give her a small smile, trying to pretend everything is normal. My dress isn’t half hanging off my body, and I’m not—
