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Muddled

He didn't remember seeing Chris at the party, but it's obvious now that he was there.
What the hell did Idrink last night? I thought, head spinning as I came into consciousness. Trying to think past the crippling post-alcohol agony I focused on the details that led to there being a crippling post-alcohol agony in the first place.

Okay, best friend is getting married. That’s hard to forget. Bachelor party. Okay. The case of 150-proof Joe dragged out of his car. Things starting to make a little more sense. Fuzzy thoughts after glass five… Yeah. I’m amazed I didn’t die of poisoning.

I shift, my sore muscles cramping painfully and forcing me to acknowledge their need to move now or else my body would riot. I still instantly though as I met something that should not be stopping my foot from reaching its full distance. And unless I grew another leg sometime in the night (and my thoughts turn down a dirty road that I steer it back cleverly from) there should not be a warm, solid mass of flesh pressing back against my toes.

“Holy shit!” I yelp, falling sideways out of bed. Aside from the jarring of my poor brain as I meet the floor I come to realize two things: I still only have two legs and I am lacking the typical attire that one normally wears to bed.

What the hell did I do last night?! I swear, peeking hesitantly back over the bed like a terrified child searching for the boogey man (though isn’t that supposed to be under the bed?). Indeed, the conclusion of two legs remains true as I find the source of the mysterious leg in my bed. It comes with a twin, and a body to match! A very naked, sleeping body of my ex-boyfriend who should not be in my bed.

Chris and I had dated throughout our high school days and partly into our college days before he broke up with me (after five years, the ass) and I admit I didn’t take it so well. Call me a pansy but I think I spent the next few months catatonic and it took Jack and Dan to pull me out of my deep depression. I didn’t notice Chris last night at Dan’s bachelor party, which leaves the question: What is he doing in my bed?

Which, after a long stare, I learn is not my bed at all. It’s Chris’ bed actually. I recognize it from our dating days, when we put it to use rather frequently. With this established there is only one thing I can do.

Dressed quickly and quietly (that is from practice as well) I pen a short note and bolt in terror.

“Not sure what we did last night, but I hope you liked it.

-Sean”

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Copyright © All content is originally created by M. Hendrix unless otherwise stated. Sharing is fine, as long as credit is properly given, along with a link back to the original source or my website.

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