I woke up with a fat ankle and a trail of puke leading from my pillow down the side of my mattress to a big pile on the floor. Remnants of yesterday’s salad dyed red by last night’s vodka crans. Both of my towels were mixed up in the vomit pile, my sorry excuse for cleaning it up in the night. A grocery store bag in the corner had the clothes that from the smell and stains I must’ve been wearing while throwing up. The sun was bright through my black out curtains and the hum of the air conditioning sounded like the bass of a song blared through car speakers loud enough to blow them out. A ring of black makeup around my eyes made me like a raccoon. On the toilet I passed what felt like all that was left of my guts then cried a little ’cause I knew I wasn’t done for the day. With puking or anything else.
On my good ankle I hopped back to my room then got dressed for the day I was supposed to spend with my mother in San Francisco before an evening drag show for pride month. Black jeans and a tank top with platform sandals too tight for my bad ankle. In my arms the dress I was planning to wear to the show, chocolate brown with matching heels.
Two of my roommates stopped talking when I entered the kitchen for a glass of water and smiled at me in a way that made their lips thin. From their faces and the silence I guessed they either heard me puking or had interacted with me in some way. Hoped for the former but didn’t ask.
My mom greeted me as I sped into her bathroom to gag up the water I’d sipped on the drive over. Some spit clogged in my hair and snot dripped down to my mouth. I cried a little bit again because throwing up involuntarily always reminds me of the bulimic I was for ten years and how bad her throat hurt doing this seven times a day.
“Is your stomach torn up?” She asked while putting on lipstick in her compact.
“I’m hungover,” I answered.
She looked down at her shoes then said we needed to hit the road. In her car with my feet on the dash the radio DJs prank called people claiming to be someone their partners were having an affair with. A woman named Ashley said she knew Craig had someone on the side. A guy named Rick said he should’ve thought twice about Alex’s bisexuality.
Before the overpass I started to feel queasy but ignored it. Passed it and bile filled my cheeks while mom pulled off. Out the door I let out what I had then leaned back wiping my sweat with the back of my hand. She offered to find a gas station where she could get me a bag and a Gatorade. I threw up again fifteen minutes later in a 7-Eleven paper bag.
“I don’t think I can do this today. I’m sorry,” I said.
She cried a little and I didn’t at all. We drove back to her house and she watched as I cried a lot before walking in.
