The Morning After: The Bloodbath
After overstaying my welcome at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party (read: falling over and taking out the lights and the music with my ass. True story), I decided to cut my losses and head home for the night. My friend with benefits was at a different NYE soiree and informed me via text that he was ready to get outta there and meet me for our own party.
I walked out into the freezing cold night and attempted to hail a cab. Unsuccessfully. So, I thanked God that I was too drunk to feel the blisters forming in my heels and started walking. Ten minutes, two cigarettes (I was realistic and opted not to make any non-smoking resolutions) later, my hands were numb, my nose was dripping and I was giving the sexy eyes to my man friend waiting outside of my apartment.
As we rode the elevator up to my place I told him about my little fall in front of a hundred people. Then he told me how he’d slipped on the ice getting out of a cab and tore his jeans. Then we started making out in the elevator and the talking stopped.
We made it back to my place, did our thing and then promptly passed out.
I woke up a few hours later feeling like I’d eaten cotton balls for dinner. And, damn, my breath was bad. I needed hydration. I needed to brush my teeth (stealthily so he thought I just woke up with mint fresh breath). I reached over, grabbed a shirt and snuck out to the kitchen in search of the Powerade I’d stocked in my fridge the night before (I like to plan ahead). Then I ran to the bathroom, swished with a little mouthwash and did my sexy walk back into the room. I was pulling the covers back on the bed to climb in when I saw it.
The kind you’d see in a Law and Order: SVU marathon. The kind that would get you taken into the police station for aggressive questioning by Elliot Stabler.
My mind started racing. Did the boy try to kill me in my sleep? Was I missing a kidney? Was he still breathing? OMG, did I kill him??!
The boy rolled over and opened his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he mumbled.
“Thank God you’re alive.” I responded. (Note: there was a very good chance I was still at least two sheets to the wind.)
“Uh. You too?” He gave me a strange look. Then I pointed at the sheets.
“Ew,” he said.
“Where did that come from?!” I asked.
We spent the next minute searching our bodies for the source. Finally, the boy kicked back the covers, exposing his legs. And then we saw it: a big, bloody knee.
I breathed a sigh of relief, happy to know that all parties involved were alive and well (and that I wasn’t the source of the bloodbath). The relief soon gave way to sadness, though, when I realized my morning plans of sexy time followed by pancakes would be replaced with stripping the bed and fighting stains in the laundry room downstairs.
Talk about a walk of shame.