Page 10 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I.
Feel.
Like.
DEATH.
My stomach is a burning, roiling riot of alcohol fumes and acid.
And my head is pain. Concentrated misery throbbing in time with my heartbeat. It stabs against my eyeballs, which are so gritty with makeup residue, I can feel last night’s mascara through my closed eyelids. For the moment, I keep them shut; best to reduce the number of parts receptive to pain.
Today will be a total write-off. Hell, it’ll be a miracle if I’m even at 75 percenttomorrow.
And yet, a smile stretches across my face. I had agreattime.
Tentative optimism has me reaching across the mattress to check for a possible gray-eyed bedmate, but as my left hand skims over what feels like terrycloth, it seems I’m alone. I brave a peek, slitting my eyes: just me. Me, covered with, if the crinkling is anyindication, a sleeping bag, lying on a red-and-white-striped beach towel. There’s a large fold-over tag still sewn in the far corner of the towel. A new towel, then. How nice.
My solo status rouses a flicker of disappointment, but it’s probably for the best. If I look even as remotely as hellish as I feel, I’d hate to alarm my mystery hunk.
Though I could go for a co-misery snuggle.
Or the release of death.
Or…Taco Bell.
Eyes still partially open, I spot my phone beside my pillow. It vibrates with an incoming text, but I leave it. I’m not ready to let reality intrude on this surreal bubble of pain and giddiness. My head is splitting and I got kicked out of a bar last night! I cleaned a bathroom and made out with a stranger! Who was that guy? And who the hell was I?
I close my eyes, replaying the session’s highlights. We kissed, whichIinitiated! Five years since my last first kiss, andImade the first move! And the kissing was excellent, with hands going all sorts of happy places. Definitely a butt guy, my mystery man. He found my tush and held on!
And then—
I frown.
And then… it is now. My memory is a soggy blur from the butt-grab to the unkindness of daylight. Save for that enthusiastic hold on my backside, I’ve got nothing. I know that there was no sexual activity; even with the current barrage of sensations in my body, I’m clued in to my nether regions enough to know they stayed on the bench last night. Though, in other erogenous zone news, I’ve exceeded my boob tape’s recommendedusage period by who knows how many hours. That’s going to be rough later.
Okay! So. I blacked out—not great—but I was safely tucked away with makeshift bedding. I’ll call that a draw. I’m not super sure where I am—also not ideal—and I’m—I hold a hand over my left eye, cautiously opening my right—nothing but a blur in the outside corner. Still half-blind, then. Crud.
So that’s two in the con column for my current state, and that’s ignoring the dumped, homeless, and potential MS of it all.
But I’m still smiling. Iwentfor it.
And now I’m violently hungover in an unknown location.
Still smiling, though!
Granted, that smile slips into a grimace as I push myself into a seated position for a better view of my surroundings. The sleeping bag falls to my lap with a crinkle of nylon. Other than the bed, which is simply a mattress on the floor, there’s nothing in the room. Incredible light…
Clarity! The Dawghouse! With the collegiate puppies! Where…I might live now?
My other senses are slowly emerging from the booze-soaked haze, and I register the dull thump of bass.And—I inhale through my nose—someone in the vicinity is cooking bacon.
The bacon is my motivation as I knee-walk my way to the end of the mattress. There, I find my shoes—ugh, no thank you, heels—and a pile of laundry. On it is a sticky note reading,FOR ELLY ALL CLEAN!The note must have been written after the sticky was put on the clothing; there’s a hole poked into the paper at the bottom of the exclamation point.
I look over the stack of sweatshirts and shorts and smile. First,they give me cheese, and now, they’ve conjured comfies from who knows where.
I put the clothes aside for later and swing my legs off the mattress. Standing is precarious, but once upright, I make it to the door without incident, then open it and step out. The bass is louder, and the bacon smell blessedly thicker.
“Hello?” No response.
