Day, Post-Gin

I wake up at eight AM. On the couch, fully-clothed, two bags of junk food leavings by my feet. Wild hair and smudges of grease. The arid post-gin mouth, clacking, clacking.

"Hey, Ott," I say into my phone, "making sure you got home OK. Don't know if you slept here at all, left in the night or whatever. Call me back. Some sign of life."

I hang up. My shoes are ruined, probably. Covered in splotches of I-don't-remember. Gin, beer, something. The splotches are sticky. I remember that I spilled my gin and tonic in Ott's car. What was I doing with it in his car?

I wasn't even invited to the party, not properly, I just tagged along. Made an ass out of myself by eating too much sausage, drinking too much gin, yelling my opinions from the top of my voice, as if anybody else but Ott wanted to hear them. Maybe not him even.

After a much needed nap Ott still hasn't called. "Hey," I leave with him again, "unless you're wrapped around a tree, call. Just one ring. You know the drill." He talked about crashing on the couch, the couch I crashed on. But there were other places. He must have stayed, even just a little.

What are those guests thinking of me? By the time I was done yelling most everyone was gone. Was it I drove them off? What was I talking about? What food did I eat from this bag? Did I enjoy it?

The shower doesn't help. It gets some of the dirt off, sure, but it's more than that. I need more than that. I need answers. I eat oatmeal.

Sun goes down early and still no sign from Ott. I leave him a final Call. Me. and call it a day. Is that what I call this? Can it even be called that? Was this a day? To me? Is that what all of these have been? It seems wrong. It seems unfair. It feels unfinished.

I'm lying on the bed, picturing him wrapped around that tree again, wondering if we'll ever learn. My phone goes off once, and not again. And so I know we'll never learn, at least not today, and I go to sleep.