Thursday, June 2, 2016

Flash Fiction: One Hell of a Hangover

I rolled over in my bed, dragging a lump of covers with me as I began to emerge from sleep. The pounding in my head was only exacerbated by the light filtering through my so called black out curtains. Black out, my ass. The room was a filtered shade of brown at best as the sun rose on what others would call a "lovely morning." Others who hadn't been shooting tequila the night before.
The groan that escaped my lips seemed to emanate from my entire body, as if every cell was bemoaning the amount of liquor I'd consumed hours before. Mind and body were united in the determination that I made a terrible mistake in judgement and would never do that again. Well. Probably. Not for a while. At least not until the next weekend.
One part of my body began protesting louder than the others, and I was both delighted and surprised to find it wasn't my stomach or my head. Not to worry, I was sure they would each voice their concerns in their own time and in their own ways, but for now, it was the bladder that was calling for attention. Immediately. I had never felt so grateful for my unsuccessful search for a roommate. The rent might be crippling, but the bathroom was always free, and I never had to worry about my make up being used by someone else.
I unwound myself from my sheets with jerking, uncoordinated movements that almost took longer than my bladder was willing to wait. I shuffled down the hall just as ungracefully as I'd emerged from my bed, and nearly missed the bathroom doorknob. When I did grab hold of it, I thought I must be at the wrong door. It didn't turn.
My bathroom door was locked. I realized the static sound in my ears was not hangover induced, but was coming from the shower. As I listened closer, I heard a man humming. Oh, shit, I thought to myself, who the hell did I fuck last night?

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