february fifteenth 🖤 conor oberst

two

Conor

When I wake up, I have no idea when or how I got to bed.

My brain's foggy from something that can't possibly just be alcohol, and my eyes burn from something that can't possibly just be crying.

In fact, they feel like they're bleeding.

I sit up, feel the headache of guilt attack my brain. Standing makes me feel motion sick.

What the fuck did I do?

Knowing exactly what my priorities are this morning, I stumble towards the bathroom, trying my best to keep my command over my own body.

Somehow, I manage to make it there successfully. I stop in front of the mirror, locking eyes with my reflection.

Jesus Christ. My eyes.

I cringe at the red pooling at the bottom of my lower eyelids. This isn't a smoked-too-much-pot or didn't-get-enough-sleep kind of red.

It looks like blood.

Lucky me. For my twenty-first birthday, I get a burst blood vessel.

I groan my displeasure and turn on the faucet, splashing cold water onto my face. Slowly but surely, the cool against my face wakes me up, bringing me back to reality. Reminding me just what happened last night.

I didn't bother much with substances, — just beer, three out of four of which were purchased for me by a pretty white-haired girl who looked kind of like Brigitte Bardot.

The two of us spent the last two hours of the evening talking in the corner of some humid little bar.

She pointed to what seemed to be her naked likeness on the wall as we shared a calorie-laden plate of warm apple pie and melting ice cream.

She talked about how the boys in her old neighborhood spent a lot of time watching her growing up, and, looking at what she grew into, I thought I understood why.

She asked me about my music, acting politely interested despite the fact that recognition never seemed to dawn for her, — and maybe I was glad for that.

I considered her proud assertion that she was a nude art model, looking back and forth between the painting and the girl. She looked up at me with her spoon hanging out of her mouth, and I felt my face get hot.

Then the bar closed, and the two of us ventured back out into the cold together. She stayed by my side, not offering to leave me behind, and, though I wouldn't come right out and say it, I was really beginning to like her.

I wanted to stop and look at her for a while, see what she looked like with tiny flakes of snow in her hair, all of her washed in moonlight. I wanted us to climb into another cab together and head back to my place.

I wanted to feel closeness again, with this girl.

So why didn't I?

Because of the fucking apple pie.

Suddenly, my stomach rolled, reminding me that I was bound to reject any food put in my system, regardless of how good the sweetness of it tasted in the moment. Dairy mixed with alcohol, volatile, too much. I was getting lightheaded.

Feeling the blood drain from my face, I muttered some apology before falling to my knees and puking all over the place.

Embarrassing. It was so embarrassing.

Still, when I put my head back up, I felt fingernails lightly scratch from my neck down to my back.

When I turned around, she was still there, looking worried for me.