Her first thought when she woke up was that she hated him. She hated the arm draped comfortably over the dip of her waist. She hated his breath at her neck smelling masculine and boozy and amazing. She hated the glass of water and the three little orange pills balanced on her nightstand that he’d apparently put there after she’d passed out.
Her second thought was that she had to throw up. Seva shoved his arm off, scrabbled at the tangled bedsheets, and stumbled from her mattress. A motherboard hiding under last night’s dress cracked when she stepped on it, she kicked the component and swore. She dodged around a few empty bottles of rum and disassembled chassis before an empty pizza box tangled her dash towards the bathroom. She swore again but managed to careen through the door, hands scrambling to push the toilet seat up in time.
Minutes later,with last nights festivities successfully expelled from her stomach, Seva leaned back against the bathroom wall. Her skin was clammy with the familiar bloodless chill of morning-after collateral.
Bathroom floor cold against her bare ass, she looked down at the fabric hanging off her shoulders. It was a dark grey shirt, not hers, his. That guy she hated so much. And now she smelled like him.
Seva pushed herself to her feet with a muffled ‘motherfu-’ and glared into the mirror above the sink as the tap ran. Not her best with several inches of grown out dark roots, jagged split ends, and smokey eyes evolving from racoon into crusty post-apocalyptic warrior queen. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t even cute. The peroxide blonde swamp hag looking back at her definitely was not girlfriend material. She wasn’t even supposed to be something to stick around for after messy drunk sex material.
She dug some of the crustiest bits of her mascara out of her eye with a finger nail before giving up, the pressure within her skull was beginning to pound. Seva palmed a few mouthfuls of water into her mouth and left the bathroom.
He was still there, illuminated red in lights of computer cases, sleeping through his own hangover. Chest rising and falling, he’d half collapsed over the spot she’d been in. Seva thought he looked pretty damn comfortable in her bed.
Too comfortable. How many weekends did they end up like this? That question led down a dangerous line of thinking, one that Seva had no intention of following. With a pounding head and eyelids that were already kind of stuck closed with last-night’s make up, crawling back into bed next to him was about the only thing that made sense to Seva in all this.