Frequency of matches…
No.
Previous match…
Bingo.
I smile like a Cheshire cat when a complaint box appears.
“Let’s do this,” I say, words slurred. I crack my neck and squint at the miniature keyboard on the screen. I might be inebriated, but I have a lot to say, and they’re gonna hear every last fucking word.
4Moyo
I’VE ALWAYS BEEN BUILT DIFFERENT.
Another night of binge drinking without a single drop of vomit. Unfortunately, that’s where my superior drinking powers end because as I’ve gotten older, a new alcohol-induced affliction has developed—a skull-splitting headache. Today’s headache is confounded by a stream of sunlight through a crack in my blackout curtains. Clearly, drunk Moyo forgot to do hungover Moyo a solid.Bitch.
I slowly raise my pounding head from my couch and assess the damage. The room appears in order. My basket of horror movie Blu-rays sits untouched. And nothing’s broken, unlike that one time in college that got me kicked out of school housing. The only things amiss are the empty bottles strewn on the floor, marking my journey from my bar cart to the couch like a treasure map.
I look down at my disheveled attire, and memories of last night come flooding back. Blue eyes stab me once more, for good measure, and I groan in accordance. The sound is heavy, prolonged, and almost loud enough to drown out the doorbell.
“Now, who the fuck?” I whisper as I get up and retighten the loose knot on my coat. I haven’t had the chance to look at my face or hair, but I knowI look a mess. My fingers fly to my face—I should stop doing that—and the dryness confirms my hypothesis. I reach up to assess my hair, hoping to feel my bonnet. But, like forgetting to do my skincare routine, I also forgot to wear my bonnet. Honestly, what should I expect from someone who slept in a trench coat and last night’s lingerie?
Theding!goes off again, and usually the sound amuses me, but with this headache, it’s about as amusing as an awards show host. The ringing continues, increasing in frequency, while my patience nosedives. Now, I’m not a violent person, but vicious urges bubble in my core.
“I’ll kill them.” I yank the door open. “What?”
“Woah, anger management. Chill.”
The quick retort from the familiar voice acts as a bucket of ice water, dousing my anger with a sizzle. Sewa’s signature ginger braids swing past my eyes as she confidently walks into my space.
“Did you really text SOS to brag about your amazing night?” Sewa’s eyes land on the empty bottles, and she gathers the evidence of my horrible night. The worry on her face almost makes me curse drunk Moyo again.
“Don’t ask.”
Sewa squints and tilts her head in pure confusion. She doesn’t use any additional words, and I don’t give any answers. We stand in the middle of the room while the cold winds nip at us.
“Let me lock the door,” I whisper.
“Actually, wait a minute, don’t lock it. Anjie is basically here, and you don’t wanna have to get up again.”
“What time did I text you guys?”
“Around 3 a.m. Woke up early this morning to work on some things and I saw it.”
I swivel to face her. Sewa started her PhD in Linguistics almost two months ago and has been working every waking minute. If she’s awake in the godforsaken hours of the morning, it shouldn’t be to entertain my relationship bullshit.
“So why aren’t you in class?” I ask, concerned.
Her eyes widen, and her perfectly shaped eyebrows raise. “Moyo, darling, do you know what time it is? Do you know what day it is?” she asks softly, coaxing me back to the velvet green couch I spent the night on.
“Uh, I don’t know where my phone is, but I’m guessing eleven or twelve.”
“This is why I’ve told you, repeatedly, to get a wall clock,” she says.
I roll my eyes, patience thinning. Who in this day and age has a wall clock? “Are you gonna tell me the time, or are you just gonna be annoying?”
“Woah, again, anger management, chill,” she repeats in the same tone as earlier, but louder.
