Is how you write.
You were exhaling whiskey, spooning it into my mouth.
I woke up and there you were, splayed out across the bed like some kind of king taking up all the space.
You smelled sharp, mannish, uncomfortable and sour, like maybe the enzymes in your mouth and skin couldn’t neutralize all the alcohol in your body and it was seeping out your pores onto the sheets, trapped in cotton. The smell of you woke me up and I looked around thinking, “Oh no no no, no no no no.”
My dress was there on the floor. I remembered watching it slither off the bed. My shoes too, their heels caked with mud (had I stepped in wet, soggy grass?), collapsed against each other near the door where I’d kicked them off. I hurt — my hair hurt, my head hurt, my hips, my feet. Where was my car. Where was…
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