This bed is not mine, neither are the clothes. These sheets feel worn, but I don’t remember using them. This dark room seems like it has seen more cockroaches than people, where there’s more empty bottles and hammy down clothes than there is floor space. There’s a musty stench that’s covered up with a coat of cologne, but clearly not enough. The sun streams in, waking me from a sleep I could’ve gone days without stirring from. The snow outside magnifies the brightness, and my eyes grumble at me to close them once more. My body is telling me to wake up, warning me of something. My throat tries to moan, grunt, do something, but nothing comes out. Fatigue finally hits me over the head, and everything turns into midnight again.

What must be an hour later I awake to a figure brushing his teeth in the connected bathroom. His body is slim, and seemingly non threatening, but still, this bed is not mine. I can feel the pulse of my heart through my fingertips. My mind flips through last night like a history textbook. How am I supposed to know what happened if all the words are blurry? I remember picking out my outfit. My leather skirt was slicked to my body. I think I see it among his clothes by the door. I had a red scoop neck top on, which is nowhere to be found now. The fabric was thin and I remember thinking that I would be too cold, but my friends promised me that I would be fine. They promised me that I didn’t need a jacket, they promised me it wasn’t too showy, they promised me that they wouldn’t leave the bar without me. When I was in elementary school I could never understand why history was a class if it was all in the past. My parents relentlessly told me that the point of studying history was so mistakes were never repeated. Now I understand, and I really wish I had studied harder.

I begin assembling my night by fitting puzzle pieces together that aren’t even from the same box. I know we chose some dive bar that everyone goes to on Saturdays. I wore my favorite heels to stand out. The soles of my feet ache at the thought of standing up. I remember looking in the mirror before I left. My make up naturally brushed over my face in a way it had never looked before. I finally figured out how to straighten my bleach blonde hair so the little curls at the top of my head wouldn’t show. I remember gazing at my long legs, my flat stomach, my tan body, and thinking, finally. 

Mary told me to find someone to buy me a drink, as she shoved my wad of cash back into my pocket. Tamara told me “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t buy your own!” while she pushed me out of their circle. Ann told me, “Look! He’s cute!” as she reassured me you will be fine. I can hear the steps from the bathroom get closer. The figure delicately flicks on the light, and tip toes over to the bed, his bed. My friends all came with boyfriends and giggled to themselves while they told me they could smell my loneliness from a mile away. I wonder if they can smell me now...

    The light destroys my vision, and the black blob where his head should be gets closer and closer. I think I recognize you from somewhere. Your shoulders sag like the sad boy at the corner of the bar. Although your hands look strong, like the bouncers did at the beginning of the night. Your sandy blonde hair is overgrown and brushed into your eyes, almost like my vague recollect of the Uber driver’s hair. Except I know you weren’t the one driving, you were right next to me. Going down 5th Ave… or was it 7th? Your chilled fingers tap my shoulder like the boy who sits behind me in my Econ class. Your voice sounds shrill like the man who always tries to talk to me in the elevator of my dorm. 

    You whisper gently in my ear as if we both don’t know that I am awake. “Good morning sunshine,” you say in a way that makes it seem like waking up next to a stranger is normal. You would’ve seemed sincere if it weren’t for your shaking hands trying to console my body. Your limbs are apologizing to me. They are telling what I already know. My body is apologizing to me too. My liver is begging for my brain’s forgiveness. There’s a war going on between my organs. Everything is screaming, vibrating, pounding on my mind, remember.

You begin to tug at the ends of my shirt, your shirt. I squirm to the floor and begin to slug over to my tiny crop top. Your eyes look at me with x-ray vision because they already know what’s under the tee shirt. Now you’re pissed off, finally a familiar face. Your hurt ego stammers, “Oh so now you don't want me?” Your tongue flicks at the end of the question in such a way that makes me think this is more of a dare than rage. My throat has still not shown up to the fist fight. I want lava to spew out of me, I want a hurricane, an earthquake, something, anything. Instead, I can hear you whistle as my tee shirt rides up ever so slightly as I dart out of the room.

I scramble to text my friends. The light of my phone pierces my eyes that it takes me a second to adjust. 8:04am, 1 percent, no missed calls or text messages, tagged in 4 photos on Instagram. I begin to text Brooke. She told me not to go out with those girls. She told me they were bad news. She told me that bar was sketchy. She told me I should stay in with her. So instead I text Mary, “What happened last night?” She almost immediately responds, “U got sooo blackout u were all over this weird kid! Tell me how he is ;)” I can feel something at the top of my throat but I can’t tell if it’s my voice emerging or vomit. My thumbs begin to type what my mind has not yet processed. Why did you let me leave with him? Couldn't you tell I was drunk? Why did you just leave me? My thumbs stop brewing the paragraph I was about to send. My body is in disagreement. My hands tell me to say something, but my voice has crawled so deep inside my body that I can’t even reach it with the tips of my fingers.

    My heels echo through the stairwell. On the first floor at the end of the stairs there’s a mirror. My body creeps towards the edge of it. I can feel my spine cower. My mind tells me to go. My heart yells at me to walk past it. My arms try dragging me by it. My legs stop. The two long tree trunks that used to be my foundation are slowly crumbling. My straight blonde hair has recoiled into little ringlets that only form when there is sweat. My mascara has split off like an endless intersection. Purple bruises are beginning to hug me and I swear I can smell his saliva on the darkness conquering my neck. What happened?

---

Monday morning rolls around and I already know that my first class will be the worst. As soon as I slip through the doorway Mary and Tamara whip their heads towards me. Their eyes pass over me in a teasing way as they both sarcastically laugh, “What did you do on Saturday?” Their whispers and giggles tell the rest of the class. My words play jump rope with my tongue while I try to entertain them, “What did I do Saturday night or what did I do Sunday morning?” I ripped that sentence through my teeth but my friends seemed to like it. Part of me wishes they asked what I actually did on Sunday. I would’ve said that there are bite marks on my hand from shoving my fingers so far down my throat. That I detoxed myself in a bath for 2 hours. That I put banana peels and toothpaste and cold spoons on my neck to cover what he did. I would’ve told them that I threw out my favorite red shirt because it smells like coconuts now but it used to smell like lavender. I would’ve told them that I laid naked on the bathroom floor all night wondering if I actually wanted to kiss him when I was drunk. But I am single and one night stands are common whether you remember them or not, so instead of telling them, I nuzzled my head between my arms and let my body relax on the desk.

    I awake to a chilling tap and for a second I can smell your grimy room. The classroom is cleared out except for the teacher. My heart beats into my throat as I sprint out the door before it turns into your room too. A man holds the door for me as I bustle into my dorm. His shoulders sag the same way yours did. His hair is blonde and shaggy and a little too familiar. He holds his glance for a second too long that makes my legs become paralyzed. His eyes are hazelnut brown not your icy blue, he’s much taller than you, he’s not you, but you are still everywhere. My vision starts to blur as I absorb myself into the carpet on my floor. I begin to pray, I pray for nothing more than my lavender scent to come back to me. Once my knees begin to throb I crawl over to my desk where the coconut chapsticks are, and dump each one into the garbage can. I take my shampoo products that resemble something tropical, and wring the entire bottle into the drain. My sunscreen smells like you too, and all I hope for is that the next time I go to the beach I don't see your eyes among the ocean.

---

The next weekend I saw you. I had convinced myself that you didn’t exist. That you were part of my drunken imagination, that you were just the one to make sure I got home safely, that I was the one who wanted to go home with you. I romanticized you. I told myself that you were attractive, I told myself that you were kind enough to let me stay the night, I told myself that I wanted you. So when I saw you with your arm around another girl, feeding her the same tequila shots you graciously gave me, I’m not sure if I was more upset by your irresponsible heart or her oblivious one. I wonder if she’ll remember you in the morning. That night I yelled at God like never before. I asked him what was the point of creating me into a Mercedes if I only get test driven by people who can’t afford me.