She got back from the bathroom and I didn't notice anything different. We were drunk and dehydrated and dancing to some strange funk-techno-fusion nonsense, not what I thought it was going to be. She looked at me, asked me to repeat myself, eyes somewhere hazy and distant. She was here physically, I thought on that, tried to focus, tried to keep drunk.
She kept slipping, grabbing my hands, something wasn't right. I took her to the bar, promised to return with waters. And we stood there, clear cups in hand, as I finished both of them. I asked her how she was, what was up, was she OK. She asked me to repeat myself. I drank more water.
We all walked for fries after, we were going to gorge ourselves on fried potatoes. Others were going on about dipping sauces, all the different kinds, and I just hated myself for touching that water. It was getting dangerously to the point where I couldn't do anything about anything. She clung close to me and didn't order. We didn't talk to the others. I was her walking stick.
Her place, keys, doors, more water. I told her to take off her bra and I meant well by it. She got her shoes off at least. I fell beside her and stared at the stars on her ceiling. Glow-in-the-dark stickers, random and few. In the morning she asked me why she slept with her bra on, and I took a taxi home.
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