I turn the faucet on, stick my face under its stream, and drink.
Last night I somehow reached the point of intoxication where memoires are basically dreams with real-life consequences. I’m freezing cold, with a throbbing headache, and pockets full of…I look down at my hands…paperclips?Oh my God, I must have hit the supply closest.
I have to get out of here. But my stomach, head, and bowels are bearing the brunt of last night’s self-abuse. The thought of ever leaving this bathroom feels like an impossibility.
I have the sudden need to gnaw on my own fist. I can’t remember what I said or did, or who I was with or how the hell I got here, but the wrongness of it is nevertheless wedged inside me, rotting me from the inside out. I do definitely remember throwing up in a shoe, but I don’t think it was mine.
I squint at myself in the mirror. My mouth is stained with what I can only hope is wine, and I’m dressed in a pair of ripped-up jeans and an old ratty college tee-shirt.
I can’t even discuss my hair.
I take it out if its bun and leaves fall out of it.
It’s pretty much futile, but I try to clean myself up as best I can.
After two false vomit alarms, I make my way out of the restroom and trudge to my workstation. Relief floods through me when I see my purse sitting in the corner of my desk and my phone plugged into a charger.
“What the heck is wrong with you?” Julia’s voice grates through my brain like a cheese shredder and I’m a block of whatever cheese smells the worse because I can’t even think of any. “What are you wearing?”
“Today I’m wearing a lovely shade of hangover, so don’t fuck with me.” I am also well aware that these ripped jeans have a gaping hole in the rear area that allows the bottom curve of my ass to peek out as I feel the breeze there like a repeated paddling. Why do hangovers make you feel every sensation too much?
Julia is wide-eyed. She’s staring at me like she regrets my own terrible decisions. I sit down and the chair rolls out, and I’m instantly searching the bottom for a seat belt only to realize there isn’t one. Because I’m on my chair. At work.
“What are you doing?” she asks, wheeling her chair closer. The scruffy sound of her wheels over the carpet stabs me in the eyeballs.
“Stop yelling at me. What day is it?” I ask, grabbing my purse and dumping everything out until I find aspirin.
“It’s Thursday. Are you okay? You look like shit.”
I tear open a water bottle my drunk-self thoughtfully left for me last night and swallow back four aspirin and the entire contents of the container.
She rolls closer. “Janie, I’m so upset. I was waiting for you to get in. I saw your purse and knew you were here somewhere…”
Her voice is killing me. This…this is how I die. I try to keep breathing. Big deep breaths. In and out. She needs to shut up. She needs to just shut the fuck up.
“Last night I called Prince Auden Pierre Luc and a woman answered his—”
“Oh, let me drop everything I’m dealing with right now and work onyour fuckingproblems.” I slam down the empty water. It’s mangled and scrunched up like a piece of paper. “Is that why you missed my birthday dinner?”
Her entire face reddens. “I-I forgot all about it. With everything going on. I’m sorry. How was it?”
I smile just to stop my tears from falling. How did I ever think this person was my friend?
“Just great. I was the only one who showed up. I have a hangover, apparently from partying too hard by myself and whoever’s shoe I spewed in.” I look over at Dex’s desk. His chair is still empty. “Look, I have a really awful headache. Can you just tell me your problems later so I can get control of my thoughts right now?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m sorry.”
No, Julia, you’re not.
I grab my phone and call Dex. His voicemail is still full.
I push my chair away from the desk and stand up, stumbling just a bit. Then I march myself down the hallway and right into Gail’s office without knocking.
“Jane? Ew. Dear God, did you get hit by a bus andstillcome into work?”
I sigh. “I need to talk to you for a minute.” My voice is a whisper because the storming in depleted most of my energy.
“No, tell me what this look it all about first. Were you cast in a zombie movie? Did you fall off a building? Rough sex? Are you a heroin addict now? Jane, that’s so last century.”
