I woke up in my bed alright. At the kitchen a jocky summit was held. I sensed funny looks made as I was waiting for my coffee. I reckoned that though I was alone in bed when I left it, I might not have been alone when I entered. My flatmates and I communicated by way of grunts and one word sentences. I didn't feel we were ready for full phrases and anyway I couldn't think fast enough of an ambiguous comment that would prompt them to divulge the information I sought without betraying the fact that I had no idea. God forbade they knew I did not have my shit together.
I ran with my yogurt and coffee to the crime scene. There were no signs that I had not come home alone, no condom wrappings on the floor, no suspect waste in the paper bin, no unfamiliar hairs, no switched pillows, no traces of smell, no stains, no incoming or outgoing calls nor texts. The perfect crime? But absence of evidence did not mean evidence of absence (I was told).
By the time I was done I had disturbed any potential body imprints on the bedsheets. I recoursed to staring at the heap of last night's attire and deciding if I undressed alone or had had help. It seemed sloppy but then again I must have been drunk tired and it would have been an achievement that I had undressed at all.
By Saturday night I had received no signs from him (of course, he didn't have my number BUT PERHAPS HE HAD MY ADDRESS).
First thought: Elvis had a one night stand with me and then vanished. WHAT A DOUCHE.
Second thought: I gave myself to a TikToker. Who tiktoks about video games. WHAT A DOUCHE I AM.
Third thought: I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF IT HAD HAPPENED.
Fourth thought: I DON'T HAVE HIS NUMBER I'D NEVER KNOW.
After wasting an embarrassingly long time searching for his TikTok (OK I MOSTLY WATCHED THIRTY Y/O TEENS DANCING) I switched to aggressively Facebooking, leaving a trail of photo commentary to be picked up for good measure, but came up with nothing. I decided to ask the party host. To keep some minimal intrigue I'd have obliquely inquired about one of Anastas' friends, but I hadn't seen him with anyone at the party. I GOT CORNERED. Anyhow I decided to abide until a time that wasn't 3am to do so.
First thing in the morning (pronounced ‘afternoon’) I saw on the party's group chat a message by one of the hosts about a guitar that had been left unclaimed at the flat, replied to by a happy retriever. I had missed him on my pass of the group members but on a closer inspection I recognized the Scream costumed figure in the profile pic as Anastas.
After much crafting I came up with ‘Thanks for walking me home.’ for an overture.
It took him an awfully long time to come up with ‘np’ for a reply, which made me reckon that I should have after all gone with ‘Did we have sex the other night?’ if I wanted answers.
Before long he added ‘Who is it?’ WRONG ANSWER. There were two possibilities: either he was a player (seemed unlikely, but you never know) who walked women home indiscriminately, the scummy douche, OR he had not walked me home because in reality he had abandoned me, a drunk and helpless girl, in the middle of the city at the heart of the night, the utter repugnant ass. I would have let it chill so he didn't think I was constantly checking my phone for signs of his attention but I could not hold myself back. I was typing an evocation of shame and of his due sense of luck that I was alive and not quartered and drowned when more messages came in:
oh
You're the cute one from Fred’s party (swoon)
With the salty catfishing chats (jerk)
When do we see each other again?
The moment I was waiting for.
Never!
:(
I got two tickets to Iron Maiden baby
Iron Maiden are dead!
You're not coming to Yanina's birthday party?
Yanina was fairly close in my social circle and I was hurt for not having gotten the memo. The outsider beat me to it.
I wrote,
Not any more!
and scrambled to find information about said party.
I like "jocky summit." That's a good turn of phrase, a good way to describe a very particular social situation.