A Short Story
By: Sharifa Morris
F***. I wake up perpendicular to the wall with my legs hanging off The Guy’s old canopy bed, which now serves as a living room couch. The room is bright, some shawty is grilling bacon in the kitchen and a couple of people are chatting. I look over to see some Random Dude passed out in his coat parallel to me. No idea who he is. Whatever.
Confused as to why I am not in my apartment on Willington, I scan the room for my pants as I am currently only in my white cropped tee–wait this is definitely a black t-shirt that is not mine. Where the f*** are my clothes? I see my black and white plaid pants hanging on a chair across the room. I scurry; grabbing and sliding on the pants as fast as I can so no one can see my bare ass. You see, I’ve decided I don’t wear bras anymore and I rarely wear panties, which has been pretty awesome…up until now. OF COURSE THE ONE NIGHT I PASS OUT AT THE GUY’S HOUSE IS THE NIGHT I HAVE A FULL BUSH. Girl, do better.
Everyone is waking up, and it’s all good vibes. Last night was great. I mean, I think so…
I remember pulling up with Day One Shawty; she dipped out early. Of course with her cuffing ass. The night started light with some pong; I remember it escalating to shots and Goose– pretty sure I mixed light and dark; I remember having so much girl talk, with whom, I don’t know; did I dance all night like usual? Still–don’t know why or how I ended up here…or rather not in my Caucasian home.
Looking around, No one seems upset or imposed on, so I’m just going to not overthink this, enjoy still being drunk as all f*** and try to get my s*** together back together.
I go over to The Photographer’s room down the hall. He’s still in bed. I knock and enter.
“Dawg, what the f*** happened last night?!” We laugh.
“Don’t worry, everyone was too turnt last night.” We chuckle some more.
It’s so fun to wake up after a night of partying to other still drunk people –The air is always so light and the mood is so jolly.
“The turn up was just too real,” I look down bashfully, “….did I just …pass out here?”
The Photographer laughs…”uhh yea.” he laughs so more.
I burry my head in my hands and laugh. “Uhhhh, sooo sorry. I’m too much.”
“No worries, we got you.”
I float back into the living room to collect my life. Crop top? Check. Phone? I inspect the screen. Not cracked, dope. Keys? Check. Wallet? Cool. I sigh with the relief that at least I got some of my priorities straight. The Random Dude is now wide awake, clearly mean mugging the s*** out of me. I really can’t help but chuckle to myself; I have no clue why he’s so mad (or who he is, as a matter of fact) and this situation is just so funny to me. This whole morning has been pretty ridiculous,…and the thought of this stranger looking at me as if I spit on his puppy at his grandma’s funeral is pretty comical — especially because I’m pretty sure he’s only salty because took up most of the bed with my impractical sleeping position. So maybe I did impose upon one person. My cheekbones tingle as I purse my lips to help me refrain from laughing in his face. I look down to check the time. 10:30 am. Not too shabby. But bitch…you have work at noon.
The Guy comes downstairs, bright, smiling and warm as usual. He’s wearing a tank top. Damn, why are his arms so f****** sexy? He nods and says whats up to everyone as he grabs his keys. “Come on, I can give you a ride home,” he offers kindly.
The ride in his car is quiet—unjudging, comfortable, familiar and safe. I’ve always felt warmth in The Guy’s presence, and this morning is no different. I want to laugh and poke fun at my shenanigans. I want to smoothly offer to sleep in his bed next time. I want to ask him why does he looks at me like that from across the room and if he knows what that does to me. I want to cry and confide in him how I feel lost and unhappy. I just want him. But I just sit there as we smile, look forward, and ride down Broad Street in the silence of my longing.
On the way to Cecil, he offers some campus homies a ride. They laugh and talk about last night and The Guy’s big confrontation with his ex. Uhh yea…definately don’t remember that. My mind wonders off as the conversation makes a hard right into cis-hetero male ego-land. I pull down the vanity mirror and gaze at myself for the first time this morning. My lip is still swollen and the scratches on my head are still sore from when I fell on my face a couple days ago outside of Stunt. Second time I fell on my face within the past 6 months. Third time if you count when I passed out and fell to my knees at work in June. Damn girl, you good? Nah, not at all.
We pull up in front of Owl Breakfast and the campus homies in the back dap up The Guy in gratitude and head to breakfast. I start to head out too.
“Thank you, But I can just get out here.”
“Are you sure, I don’t mind taking you home.”
“No really, thanks–for everything.”
He smiles and nods, looking at me no different than he did yesterday. My heart flutters in relief.
I go home, light a spliff, scarf down my veggie omelet with feta cheese and side of home fries. I shower and Uber my lazy ass to work. Luckily Sundays are always slow. I barely make it through two hours of bulls*** retail and distant, unconnected customer service…still thinking about The Guy of course. After two batches of consignment, I enthusiastically offer to head to the back with the rejections. I plop down with the bag and lay over the comfortable bounty of garbage bags of clothes. Exactly what my hungover ass needed. Laying there still thinking of him, laughing at my never ending shenanigans. Laughing turns to embarrassment. Embarrassment turns into regret. Regret turns into shame. Shame turns into loneliness. I want to hear his voice.
I pick up my phone and dial…The Photographer. Coward.
