Whole Hide

Laurie didn't understand how her friends were all up and moving about like they were. Hadn't they had the same night as she, brilliant choice after brilliant choice? She'd fallen asleep on the couch, pants on, shoes miraculously off. Her hair was so matted and tangled she was seriously considered chopping it all off.

Brunch was at the usual place before they all headed back to the city. Her friends all got Bloody Marys, which again she could not fathom. She understood hair of the dog, but to her another drop of the stuff seemed more like the whole hide. The eggs were oily, the sauce was thick, the salad made her think she was feeling better. In fact, when she was asked as such, she told them yes.

But in the car things changed. As the other girls in the backseat fell asleep Laurie noticed that whenever she closed her eyes she felt nauseated. She felt every bump and pothole, she saw blurs and squiggles that were not there flying past her. She thought she might be able to fall asleep before the queasiness overtook her, but thought it better not to risk it. So she faded in and out, catching her falling eyelids, trying hard to fight what came naturally. She forced those lids open, straining the eye muscles as she did, looking up far too high, and it worsened the feeling. She had quiet gas which relieved her some. She had blue Gatorade and hoped that it was working.

Then her mouth began to water and she knew this was the end. She politely—overly so, they would laugh about it after the fact—asked that the car be pulled over to the side of the road because she was going to be sick. Speeding cars kept coming up too close together on the right and for a moment she thought she'd have to go, right there, in the car, on the back of the seat or in a shirt that she'd just throw to the side of the road. But the car managed to pull off and she managed to hop the rail and run a few steps before light blue liquid and pieces of meals came hurtling out of her mouth and nostrils. One big explosion, followed by a second. And although the relief was immediate it tainted her favorite color of Gatorade. What was she supposed to drink on these mornings now? "Should have had that hair of the dog," one of her friends said.

The rest of the car ride was uneventful. Laurie looked at the half-drunk beverage in between her feet. She thought of the used paper towels she left at the scene. The brunch that was delicious, that she enjoyed and paid for, all gone. She started worrying that she brought some of the mess back into the car, that it was baking in the sun somehow and embedded in the fibers of her jeans, and almost said something, before she realized that, no, it just passed through her nose those two times. Leaving a trail of itself behind, masking every other scent for the rest of the day.