Left Drowning(3)

I turn on the light by my bed and push the sheets down with my feet, again grateful that I do not have a roommate to growl at me for my odd hours. The yellow light shines over my body, and I involuntarily wince as I sit up and see my legs, which are covered in bruises from falling down while wasted two nights before. As a general rule, I give little thought to my appearance, but even I can see that it’s not just the bruises that make me look like a mess. My legs and bikini line are in dire need of a good shave. Upon further examination, I accept that I could probably stand to work out once in a while. Surviving on little food and too much beer and tequila is, unsurprisingly, not serving my body well. I tap my feet together and watch my thighs. They’re both bony and jiggly; it’s a super-attractive combination.

The shade that covers the one large window in my room retracts with hurricane force when I tug on it, and I flinch at the loud noise it makes. It’s still dark outside, but the act of opening the shade seems like something that people—normal people—should do when they get up. It’s an important gesture, and for some reason I think that today should possibly be a day of important gestures, if not actual connectedness with the real world. I have already made the decision to get out of bed early and not drink for another twenty-four hours, and that’s better than I’ve done in a while.

After pulling on jeans and a hoodie, knotting my hair into a twist, and brushing my teeth, I stuff a few things into a backpack and head for the student union. If I hope to make any other important gestures today, I will need coffee.

Although it’s normally swarming with students, the union is empty at this hour, save for the unfortunate work-study victim who is behind the register at the café. “Coffee?” he asks.

I nod. “Two, please. Extra large. Black.”

He peers behind me.

“Yes, they’re both for me.”

I tap my fingers rhythmically on the counter as I watch him pour.

“Here you go.” He snaps a lid onto the top of each cup and swipes my student ID card.

I thank him and look around the room. Normally I sit by the wall near the emergency exit door, but since the place is so empty today, I decide to sit down in a chair in the center of the room and kick my legs up on the seat of another. The first big sip of coffee is so strong and bitter that it makes me cringe, but I know that by the fourth sip it will go down easier. Just like shots! I think.

I check my phone. It’s been two days, and still no message from James. Not that I expect one, really, but it is hard not to hope. Aha, I think. There it is again. Hope. Maybe one night he will call me after a college party, drunk and full of rambling, incoherent questions that symbolize everything that’s wrong with our hideously damaged relationship. All of a sudden, I feel like an idiot. Could there be a stupider thing to hope for? What I should want is for the two of us to have a sober, heartfelt conversation in which we work out all of our unspoken issues and wind up the best of friends. The way that we used to be. I grimace to myself. Like that’s gonna happen. It’s probably good that he goes to college in Colorado, far away from me, so that he does not have to deal with my being able to just stop by his dorm anytime I want.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Just get through the day, Blythe. You can f*cking do this. It would have helped if I hadn’t woken up at the crack of dawn, thereby making this day longer than necessary. But I’m out of bed, out of my room, I have coffee, and I even have my earphones so that I can listen to NPR. I don’t listen to music much. Not anymore. Before—when everything was good—I would spend hours flipping through radio stations, downloading music, and dancing around my room. I’d drive around in my parents’ Honda and get lost in music. Music that had heart. That moved me. It used to be fun to fantasize about the future.

I open up the NPR Web site and scroll through stories until I settle on a rather disgusting-sounding piece about a former vegan learning to embrace butchering. Just as I near the end of the story and am learning that said former vegan’s favorite cut of meat is pig’s feet, someone crashes into the seat across from me.

“Hey! You got me a coffee! That was very thoughtful.”

Startled, I look up. A scruffy-looking guy in a ripped T-shirt and jeans faces me. He removes a cowboy hat, revealing black hair that is sticking out every which way—although in an admittedly adorable manner—and he has at least three days of good stubble going. Even though they’re bloodshot, his eyes are sharply blue. He is a big guy. Not fat, just bulky. Based on his general aroma, I guess he’s carrying a fair amount of beer weight. What’s most noticeable, however, is the big grin plastered across his face. Well, that and the fact that he is helping himself to the second cup of coffee that I so recently purchased.

He takes a sip. “You know, this really isn’t bad coffee. Sure, sure, everyone likes to make a fuss and complain that campus coffee is grotesque sludge, but that’s just an excuse to get Mommy and Daddy to fund repeated trips to that overpriced coffee shop down the street. What’s it called? Beans, Beans, right? What a dumb name. Not, however, a dumb name for the show that I’m producing, called Beans, Beans: The Musical. Since you generously got me this coffee, I shall thank you for your kindness by giving you front-row seats. And backstage passes! Wait until you meet the guy who plays Evil Grinder Number Three. He’ll scare the hell out of you in the show, but he’s a really good person deep down.” He pauses to take a long drink from the cup, and then bangs his fist on the table and grins. “This is hot as shit, huh? Just how I like it.”