And prompts me to walk to the kitchen, grab a book of matches from the junk drawer, and put a check on the blackboard. Before I chicken out, I head to my bathroom, open the window, and flip on the overhead exhaust fan. It sounds like a hamster running on a squeaky wheel, and either the wheel is lopsided, or the hamster has a wicked limp.
Lighting up, I sit on the closed lid of the toilet, close my eyes, and inhale deeply. The thick smoke drifts lazily toward the window because the fan, though noisy, is useless. Focusing on the calm that’s curling up inside my skull like a cat in a patch of sunlight, pure slackened warmth, thanks to the alcohol. I open Spotify on my phone, and because I feel like singing but don’t feel like waking sleeping neighbors, I skip the metal bands I love and go for something more subdued and nostalgic, focusing on nineties favorites. Before I know it, I’m belting out “Wonderwall” like Liam himself has crept inside my skin and possessed me, not just wholly, but purposefully.
After I wrap up my enthusiastic but supremely off-key songfest with “Iris,” I fumigate the bathroom with a heavy dose of air freshener, which only leaves it smelling like a skunk let loose in a Cinnabon. Then I float through the house gathering every pillow I can find because I have a plan. I also grab the package of Oreos from the kitchen, because every plan should involve cookies.
Lining the pillows up against my headboard, I create the cloud I envisioned and snuggle into it. I contemplate diving straight into a Thicker Than Water video lust-a-thon, but Oreos, at least the way I eat them, require two hands. Hands-on lustingwill have to wait. I open Spotify instead, search for Treachery’s Riot, my favorite band, and hit play. I’ll consider it auditory foreplay while I finish my snack.
Spontaneously, I switch to Good Guy messages.
Testing…1, 2, 3, 4. Is this thing on?
I pluck a cookie from the package on the bed next to me and untwist it while I await an unlikely, real-time reply. Scraping the filling out with my teeth, I place the demoralized wafers back in the package and start the process again with the next cookie.
When I’m on number four,…appears on my screen.
I bolt upright, unblinking. It’s like I conjured him. Maybe there’s something to the positive thinking that Lola preaches. Or maybe the weed is a magical strain.
Good Guy
It is. What are you up to tonight? (I’m no detective, but I assume from your photos that you’re American and it’s nighttime wherever you are.)
I’m not sure you want to know everything I’ve been up to tonight, but there may have been a nineties tribute concert involved. And yes, I’m in Colorado. You?
Tonight might be the night I find out more.
Good Guy
How am I supposed to NOT want details after a comment like that? Also American, I’m on the East Coast. Where was the concert?
In my bathroom.
Good Guy
Pardon?
Full disclosure, cannabis may or may not have been the instigator of the singalong. Not to brag, but it turns out when I’m high, I can sing “Yellow Ledbetter” with 10% lyrical accuracy (up from sober 7.5%), AND I can channel the hell out of Liam Gallagher. Who knew?
Good Guy
10%?!?! I’m jealous. I hover closer to .5%. And please tell me there was a tambourine involved or you didn’t do Liam justice.
No tambourine, but I did improvise with a half-empty bottle of Midol during “Wonderwall.”
Good Guy
Solid substitution. What song did you save for the finale? That’s important.
“Iris.”
Good Guy
That’s a good song. My mom used to play it a lot when I was young.
Mine too!
Maybe we’re the same age? Reasoning is hard right now, but it feels like a logical assumption.
Good Guy
