The remains of last night’s frivolity lay crumpled

at the foot of her bed. Bravely, she opened one

eye to survey the scene and caught her disheveled reflection

she thought to herself. Every muscle in her body

twinged with pain as she turned over to stare at the

ceiling instead. The familiar cracks in the plaster gazed

at her this morning with a knowing glare; they had seen

her come in last night and they knew how she had gotten

home, even if she couldn’t remember.

This was happening far too often as of late. She

wasn’t sure why. She had been sitting at the bar

sipping something made with sour mix. It had been the

fifth or sixth drink of the evening, that much she

remembered. She had tired of the taste of Tom Collins

and had requested something else, something like a

Tom Collins and yet not. Whatever the bartender

handed her must have been good. She must have

ordered a lot more of them.

Or maybe that guy sitting next to her had

bought her a few. He had been trying to make small

talk all night. She would’ve gotten up and checked her

wallet to test this hypothesis, but she wasn’t sure she

could sit upright on the edge of the bed let alone make

it to wherever her purse had been thrown when she

came in. Lying on her side she could just barely make

out the frayed edges of her jean bottoms. She

wondered if her cell phone was still clipped to their

side. She couldn’t afford to buy another replacement

right now.

She had talked to someone on the phone last

night. A shadowy memory of it floated in her mind.

Who could it have been? She remembered speaking

into the flip-top device, but didn’t remember dialing, or

answering, or whose voice had responded to her surely

slurred speech. Maybe she had called a cab. Flattening

herself against the cool sheets once again, she

peered into the rifts on her ceiling knowing that wasn’t

the answer.

Her eyelids felt heavy. Maybe she could sleep

for a while longer. Her mouth tasted like rubbing

alcohol though and she knew that if she didn’t get up

soon for a drink of water she’d regret it; nothing makes

you throw up faster than that morning-after flavor. She

rolled over again, this time determined to rise into a

sitting position. Raising herself on one arm, she caught

sight of a series of bruises across her bicep. Small and

round, she fit her own fingers onto each of them;

someone had definitely helped her home last night.

She’d have to think more about that later.

Right now she needed to maneuver her way across to

the kitchen. Luckily, her studio apartment made the

feat easier to achieve than it might have been for a

person in her condition, but as she sat with her feet

dangling off the side of the bed the short walk looked

more like a twenty-six mile marathon. The sight of her

purse on the kitchen counter encouraged her to give

verticalness a chance though. Gingerly putting her

weight on the balls of both her feet, she crept toward

the sink as if tiptoeing would make the room stop

spinning or cause the splitting pain in her temples to

wane.

Turning the faucet to cold, she lowered her

mouth down to the water and stood there for a few

minutes with it running over face and her tongue. She

wasn’t an alcoholic. She didn’t feel the urge to drink

that she knew accompanied that illness. It was just that

she had a hard time stopping once she got started. That

was due, in part, to the alcohol itself though; damn

those judgment-impairing concoctions.

Her hair fell across her eyes as she stood

leaning against the sink and the smell of cigarette

smoke washed over her. When she had too much to

drink, she often smoked too. It usually depended on

what bad influence she was with though. Her tongue

felt thick and heavily coated in them. Why did bars let

people pollute and permeate everyone’s lungs, clothes,

and bodies with those noxious vapors?

It was all their fault she felt like this today.

That bartender, couldn’t he see she was ripe for the

plucking? Ready to be taken home by the first guy that

coiled himself around her? Why didn’t he cut her off?

Put out her cigarette? She’d have to go in there tonight

and give him a piece of her mind.

Adrienne Dyane Lewis is Co-Editor of the Paradidomi Review, a

new forum for Mid-Michigan creative writers. Her work has appeared

in Fusion, Controlled Burn, and the White Pine Review. A

professional grant writer, she lives in Saginaw with her husband

and son. Her first chapbook is forthcoming from Mayapple Press