Light 100TC

I need to get curtains.

It’s 7:00 a.m. It’s Sunday. I shouldn’t be awake. But the sunlight’s too damn bright. My eyes aren’t even open and I can tell. It’s frying the skin off my nose and zapping my pores to oblivion. It hurts, but it hurts more to move. Maybe it’ll go away if I ignore it.

Curtains. Get them.

God, my head hurts.

How much did I drink last night?

Groggy morning thoughts warp their way through my mind, kind of like those jellyfish at the aquarium. Go, stop, go, stop. They collide and entwine with each other in the alcohol-induced fog. Nothing’s real, nothing’s tangible. The light’s not there if I don’t want it to be.

If I don’t want…Oh shi-

A current of fear runs through my body, and I jolt upright, throwing off the thin white sheet. I’m alone. It seems I was able to avoid being a whore, even under the influence. Good. Wouldn’t want to end up pregnant, or with AIDs just because I had a bit too much booze in a room full of college dudes.

My toilet flushes.

Crap.

Panic ensues, and my whole body goes cold. My heart pounds against the walls of my chest, demanding to be freed. It’s beat follows the rhythm of my throbbing head, and together they make my vision swim with worry and anticipation. My stomach clenches, and I feel like puking my guts out, but that’s probably due to the hangover.

The bathroom door opens, and a bright voice summons me to herald in the new morn.

“I cleaned the barf off your floor.”

I allow myself to relax. It’s only Minda. Then the initial relief wears off and I groan. It’s only Minda. Maybe I would have preferred a guy after all.

“What are you doing here?” I mumble, or at least try to. It sounded more like a cross between Chinese and Swedish, but as incoherent as I am in this state, she understands me.

“Thought I’d bring some breakfast.” She nods at a brown paper bag and two Styrofoam cups of coffee arranged neatly on my desk/dinner table. Putting it on the floor would have probably been a wiser decision. It’s cleaner and there are less ants.

“You went to Miller’s?”

“Well, you were always ranting about how good their scones were, so I figured you’d appreciate it,” she rationalizes, as if being nice to me is the eighth deadly sin. She doesn’t have to worry. Her “act of kindness” is more like “pure hell.”

Blueberry scones and hot espresso. Two of my favorite foods, and Minda’s treat on top of that. It might as well be a bowl of moldy cereal and stale milk. Just the thought of chewing and digesting is making my stomach churn. The normally pleasant aroma is sickening. But I haven’t eaten Miller’s scones in ages, and the taste would still be good, regardless whether I threw up later or not. Maybe if I did, I could eat another one. Is that bulimia? But I really want one…

I watch the bag like a hawk, the promise of food granting temporary clarity to my hung over stupor. I weigh the pros and the cons, but a rumbling pain in my gut settles the matter. Regretfully, I nestle my head back into my pillow, praying that the airy cotton would ease the tremors raking my skull.

“I’ll pass,” I say, and disappear beneath a flurry of sheets. The light shines through them too.

“Really?”

Don’t sound so surprised. Did you honestly expect me to eat anything? Dusky eyes peak out from the good-for-nothing covers.

“I don’t feel too good.”

Maybe stating the obvious will kick her brain into gear. Or spark some common courtesy. Or make her leave. Or, if I’m lucky, all of the above. Please chose A, B, C, or D and make sure to fill in the whole bubble with your #2 pencil.

“Really?” The edges of her mouth begin to creep up into a smirk.

Damn, the correct answer was E: none of the above.

“Of course you don’t.” She stuffs her hands into her jeans and begins her cat-like swagger, as if she’s hallucinating a red carpet stretching from the door to my bed. Step step. “You were out-drinking most of the guys last night.” Step step. “You should learn to show a bit of restraint, Jackie.” Step step. “It’s embarrassing to watch you guzzle like that.” Step.

She’s standing over me now. Looking down on me. Disgust? No, more like concerned disdain, if there is such a thing. She’s right, but more importantly, I’m wrong, and I know it. I have to hand it to her: although she can be a bitch at times, Minda really looks out for me. Life can be tough. Frankly, life can suck. It means a lot to know that you have one good friend out there who cares for you. She’s a better friend than I deserve.

Will I admit it? Like hell I won’t.

Minda continues to stare for a moment longer, then grins and bounces back to the table, unpackaging the scones before I can even comprehend what’s happening.

“If you’re not eating, I guess I’ll help myself!” Plopping her butt into an out of place swivel chair, she takes an unladylike chomp out of the poor pastry. “Mmm… You’re right! It is good!” she raves with her mouth full.

Scratch everything I said about her being a good friend. Erase everything but the ‘bitch’ part. I never thought it. I never even conceived the thought of thinking such a deranged thing.

This is cruel.

This is torture.

I’m pretty sure this is illegal.

She polishes off her first scone in under a minute and moves onto the second, which is rightfully mine. This is like eating in front of a starving woman, except I’m not all that hungry. Like wearing Gucci while working at The Salvation Army. Like… dammit, screw similes. It’s mean. She knows it. She likes it. That little sadist.

Unable to bear the sight of her devouring culinary gold like a wild beast, I avert my gaze out the window.

It’s cloudy.

Minda grins.