"Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink" - Charles Bukowski
The first thing I noticed was the smell of vomit and piss, followed shortly by an unbearable pounding in my head. I was just beginning to process the feeling of hard, cold tile smushed against my face when I heard Alex call from somewhere behind me, "You passed out on the kitchen floor. Again."
"I know, I'm sorry," I said, and pulled myself up. A quick glance at the sink explained where the odor was coming from. "Fuck."
"Yeah." Alex hopped off the sofa and began walking towards me. His voice seemed louder this morning, but it might have just been the hangover. "Your friends really know how to party."
"Shit," I said, hoping that would be enough to convey an agreement, an apology, shame, whatever it was he needed from me to make this better. I turned on the faucet and watched the sick slide down the drain.
Alex placed his hand on my shoulder and turned me to face him, his fingers digging painfully into my skin. "Look, mate, you know I love you-"
"Alex," I said, shaking my head, trying to clear away the alcohol drumming and the image of my parents' tartan couch forming in my mind. "Let me-"
"No. Look, you know I love you," he started again. The pounding in my head was louder now and the lines of Alex's face were starting to blur. "We've had a lot of good times. But the times aren't good for me anymore. You can't stay here. I'm sorry."
I kissed him. I'm not really sure why, because before I could process what I was doing, he'd already pushed me away and wiped the back of his hand against his mouth. My breath probably smelled like a combination of gingivitis and tequila.
"What the fuck, dude?" I heard him yell, but I was already on my way up the street, stopping only to puke in the bushes.