Sunday Morning After a Party

Waking up to naked strangers in my living room

Note: This was inspired by

Tim

’s newsletter of journal entries. Tim’s short pieces are all consistently voiced with a tone that is plain, honest, and insightful. His daily observations are always fun to read and deeply human. Go give his work a read if you’re curious

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There are naked strangers in my living room and my dog is wearing last night’s dress. The man on the couch asks if I’m going to work. He’s hot, but there’s a woman in his arms. They’re wrapped in the horse blanket I thrifted from a vintage store in Pilsen. I don't respond.

I take my dog on a walk and reflect on yesterday. She pees but doesn't shit. My tongue tastes like a skid mark. Today, I’m thankful that I woke up with my boots on, I whisper to myself, wishing that I brushed my teeth before leaving the house. A rush of embarrassment runs through me, I wonder if the naked people heard when I woke up screaming.

I walk to my nearby liquor store and the cashier—a man I know only by his nametag labelled 'Papi Chulo'—is behind the register smiling at me. I smile back, and grab a gallon of water from the fridge. I have to pay with Real Money today because my EBT ran out. The man in line behind me fishes lotto tickets out of the trash. He scans them on a machine to see if any are winners. My throat ricochets with bile.

Outside, a man threatens to beat his pitbull if she doesn't sit. Her legs tremble as she runs in circles on a short leash. “I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t behave.” She's a puppy. He's kinda hot.

A memory flashes from last night. I apologized to a beautiful woman because all my male friends kept flirting with her. “It’s okay,” she said, “we can talk about it later.” I think about how exhausting it must be to be beautiful and I sigh.

On the walk home I text a friend I suspect doesn't like me anymore. “Happy birthday. I love you.” It’s bright outside. God, it’s hard to love the city when the sun rises.

I get to my front door and think about my friend in an open relationship. The way he grew silent every time his girlfriend spoke over him. Last night, he dug through my bookshelf and asked if I read Franny and Zooey. No, I told him, I haven’t.

The naked people are still in my living room. If I had Xanax, a dry handjob, and a Sweetgreen bowl I think I’d feel better, but then I remember that I’m not twenty-two anymore. I book it to my room and wonder what kind of music the hot stranger and his boring-looking girlfriend listen to.

She walks in moments later, wearing clothes now. The outfit is hideous. She tosses a pillow onto my bed. “Just giving this back.”

When they leave, I inspect my horse blanket for semen. Sniff. Seems fine. The living room is hungover—a champagne cork in my Monstera, a table littered with half-empty Tecates, a red-solo ashtray filled with Marlboro Golds—the frozen, dank aftermath of an explosion. There’s a full shot of Vodka that someone forgot to drink. It looks lonely. I think about downing it for a moment, but decide against it and wonder if that means I’ve gotten old.

I heat up my roommate’s leftover Pad Thai. Beep Beep. The spinner inside my microwave came loose a long time ago and I never learned how to fix it. It heats up food at an angle now, and makes a loud janking sound every second or two. I massage a knot out of my neck. My dog stares up at me like she has one too. The microwave beeps and I take out my food. The bottom of the plate burns my fingertips. I finish the entire thing standing up.

I decide to walk to the coffee shop to write this. The air outside is brisk and drinkable. My head throbs and I anticipate running into someone I know. Rehearsing mutters to myself about how crazy the weather is, I wonder if I’m interesting enough to not be beautiful. I decide never to talk about the weather again.

It’s surprising how many people are outside right now. It's a Sunday.

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