I Make More Sense After A Few Drinks…

You slowly prise open one sticky eye and take in a room that is not your own. Nor is it possible to establish who the owner of the room is, because everything is seeped in a fog, and things have a tendency to spin if your eyes fix on them for too long. With a groan that may, or just as easily may not have escaped from between your dry lips, and an excessive amount of effort you gradually haul yourself into something that resembles a sitting position. Too much movement. The world spins again. Wait for it to stop. You realize suddenly, after nearly toppling out of the bed, that it is a single one. Relief washes over you, but you don’t have time to get caught up in its pleasing wave. Another thought (of sorts) has struck you.

Cautiously, carefully, you wriggle your toes, and discover that you have no shoes on. More deliberate, wary searching reveals that, in fact, you are clad in nothing but a pair of boxers and you are in fact slumped underneath the sheets as opposed to on top of them. Too much thinking. Gonna be sick. Lie back down. No, not that fast. Too late. Room whirling again. Stare at ceiling. And it’s gone. Now. Usually when it’s a single bed it’s a good thing, but also you are usually crashed out fully clothed, shoes and all on top of the quilt, too exhausted to pull back the covers. And from what you can remember of last night (not much at all – far too little for your liking in fact) you must have been far too out of it to be able to undress yourself and climb into bed. So that means someone else must have helped the process. But that usually occurs in double beds and now and again there is another human form lying next to you in the morning.

You aren’t even sure it is morning. It still seems very dark. Trying to move your head as little as possible, you peer around aiming to find a clock. This search is swiftly abandoned when something like a thought crosses your mind (but it can’t be a real thought, more of an instinct because it’s too soon after the resurfacing into consciousness for thinking) that you mouth is as dry as Ghandi’s flip-flop.

Water.

Once again sitting (more sprawling) you slowly (so very very slowly) totter to your feet and stand, swaying for a few moments before throwing caution to the wind (hopefully for the first time in the past 24 hours) and making a staggering lurch towards the door, which for some reason evades you, moving off in a steady line to the left. You trip over an unknown something on the floor and fall heavily against the doorframe with a clatter. You think (but don’t think) you hear something (someone?) move suddenly at the sound you made, but you can’t be sure. Right now you don’t particularly trust your own judgement. And the search for water is becoming more urgent. Reeling onwards you fall through yet another doorway and have an abrupt meeting with the cool white tiles, which are meant to be under one’s feet, but are at the moment against your cheek. Scrabbling against the side of the bath, you clutch grimly onto the rim for support in order to hurl yourself onto your knees and drink in long greedy gulps from the tap. Water is everywhere, splashing in a frothy spray in your hair, running in swirling turquoise tendrils down your chin.

And it tastes so good, better than you ever remembered (still not remembering much), the crystal droplets flood your mouth, the icy coldness cutting into your brain like tiny shards of glass, sparkling and clear like the water.

Finally satisfied, you push away from the porcelain bowl and cannot help (almost) thinking that you remember this bath from somewhere. Water drips from your face onto your knee, as you realize (just) that you have soaked yourself. Reaching wildly, haphazardly, your hand grabs a towel from a place where you (nearly) knew it would be.

So you must know this place. Your mind just about manages to piece together this information, after a lot of confusion. Where…? Your (half) thoughts are cut off as you stare down at the towel that is clutched in your hands. It was probably once white (at a guess) but it could just as easily have been any other colour under the sun, for now it is smudged with make-up, beer stains and some…other substances that are not worth thinking about… Red, black, blue, pink and a billion others all merged together like the thoughts in your head. No order, no clear definition between shades though they are obviously all very different, no telling where one ends and another begins.

You are so busy gazing at all these patterns merged together, that you do not hear his soft footsteps padding upstairs, approaching you from behind. In fact, it isn’t until he speaks that you realize he is there at all.

“Matt?”
You jump up guiltily, and whirl round to come face to face with Charlie. His face breaks into a grin, and you can’t help but grin back. Suddenly it all makes sense. A million thoughts struggle for coherency in your head but in the end all you can choke out is,

“Thanks.”
He looks at you, puzzled and tilts his head to one side quizzically. You shuffle your feet slightly as you explain, “For putting me to bed last night.”
Something akin to realization spreads over his face as he beams back at you and answers gruffly, “No problem, Mateage.”
His voice is thick with embarrassment, and the look on his face is something you can’t quite read.

And as you both stand there, you shivering slightly in the coldness of his bathroom, you remember with a slight pang what didn’tt happen last night, and suddenly it doesn’t matter what did happen, because something has changed, and you still feel the same way. Now your head is clear as you step across the tiles and brush your lips with his briefly. Far too briefly for him it seems, as he pulls you back into his warm embrace.



“Never mind what happens when you’re drunk, it’s what you do when you’re sober that’s mad.”
Charlie whispers in Matt’s ear. Matt shakes his head.
“No. Believe it or not, I actually make sense after I’ve had a few drinks.”