Last Champagne Toast

There is an elephant tap dancing on my head. That is the only plausible explanation for the pounding happening inside my skull. I risk opening my right eye. It is immediately assaulted by the sliver of sunlight that sneaks in through the gap in the hotel room’s drapes. My lid closes quickly, which only makes the pain worse.

Someone has managed to stuff an entire package of cotton balls in my mouth. That is also the only plausible explanation for why my mouth is so dry. Every drop of saliva has disappeared. The only evidence that my salivary glands have worked recently is the gross spittle crusted in the corners of my lips.

The quick peek I took showed a man sleeping next to me. I do not recognize him. I roll away from my bedmate and rack my brain for memories of the previous night. 

On our way to the hotel, my best friend Jillian insisted that the Uber stop at a liquor store. She proceeded to buy four bottles of Korbel. Immediately after checking into the room we opened the first bottl of cheap champagne. I snagged the to-go cups that the hotel stocked next to the Keurig machine. The first bottle was closely followed by the second and third. The pop of the cork and fiz of the liquid in our paper cups is still audible despite my foggy memory. 

With bellies warm from the alcohol, we took turns modeling sparkly outfits for each other. The narrow space between the beds and TV stand acted as our carpeted runway while we decided on what outfits would be best to ring in 2024. 

After that, things become blurry until my memory goes completely dark. There are flashes of the club; strobe lights and shot girls with sparklers. I can still faintly feel the humid air hanging over the hundreds of sweaty bodies bouncing to the music. Then nothing. No champagne toasts to welcome 2024 or imagines of the ball dropping on TV screens around the club. Nothing. 

Without warning, bile rises in my throat. I kick my legs free of the down comforter and stumble toward the bathroom, suddenly aware that I am nearly naked in only a pair of underwear. My own tangled hair falls in my face, but I am still able to take in the scene around me. 

Unfamiliar people, in various states of undress, are passed out around the room. A shirtless man is lying face down on the floor at the foot of the bed. The glitter-covered romper I wore last night peeks out from beneath his shoulder. One of my silver stilettos is lying sideways next to his head. 

 A woman is curled into the fetal position on a lime green armchair. Her bodycon dress is bunched up around her waist to reveal a black thong under it. On the couch next to her is another man sleeping completely naked. On the coffee table in front of him are three neat lines of white powder and tightly rolled dollar bills.

The cold  bathroom tiles press against my knees as I sink down in front of the toilet. The sudden chill feels good on my warm skin. An inhumane sound escapes from the back of my throat and I retch the contents of my stomach into the bowl. It lands amongst the water with a disturbing splat. The acidic taste of throw up coats my mouth. The smell of sickness fills the air. 

Carefully, so as not to induce another bout of vomiting, I push myself to stand. My knees are wobbly beneath my weight. Toothbrushes and clumps of blue toothpaste are strewn across the sink’s vanity. They are accompanied by a curling iron, a plastic comb and a metallic eyeshadow palette. The eyeshadow is cracked and the make up powder stains the granite. I bend over the sink and hold my mouth beneath the faucet. With a flick of my wrist, cool water splashes against my cheek before finally making it into my mouth. It washes away the taste of throw up and briefly combats the dry mouth. 

Somewhat refreshed, I make my way back out to the suite. It doesn’t appear that anyone has moved. I look down at my almost-naked body and then back at my romper. It is still tucked beneath the man’s shoulder. A men’s white button-down shirt is crumpled beneath the coffee table. I slip into it. My shaking hands make it nearly impossible to fasten the buttons. 

The exit is calling my name. I am shamelessly considering leaving;  barefeet and all. I have not seen my purse or cell phone, so I imagine I wouldn’t make it very far. It would help a little if I could remember the name of the hotel Jill and I booked, but nothing comes to mind. 

With a violent exhale, my lips flap together like I am giving a raspberry. I lower myself to the floor, propping my back up against the table with the cocaine to avoid temptation. Out of sight, out of mind. My stomach rolls again, but I make no effort toward the bathroom.  I clamp both hands over my mouth and suppress the hiccups that contract my diaphragm. 

An Egg McMuffin and a fountain soda would be a delicious hangover cure right now. My mouth waters at the thought of pulling into a McDonald’s drive-thru. Instead, I am stuck in an unfamiliar hotel room wearing a stranger’s wrinkled shirt. I look across the suite at the bed, the man I woke up next to is still sleeping in it. If we had sex last night I have no memory of it. If we did, were these other people in the room? I shudder. My head hurts more. 

When I was eighteen, my freshman year roommate offered me a sip of Malibu from a half-crushed water bottle. The next morning I woke up beneath her desk in our dorm room, still wearing jeans and a peplum top. At twenty-one, I wandered away from my friends at a music festival with a dead phone. I threw up and then spent the night hunched over on a curb wearing my own vomit. At twenty-five I went to my sorority sister’s wedding. The next morning I woke up between two of the groomsmen with no recollection of a threesome. 

The hotel room’s rug is uncomfortable where it presses to the underside of my bare thighs. I toy with the too-long sleeves of the shirt as I recall all of the times that I’ve blacked out. I have always made excuses; at eighteen I was just a college student and every twenty-one year old drinks too much. When I was twenty-five, I was still in my early twenties. Who didn’t party in their twenties? At thirty-two I am fresh out of ways to justify the behavior.   

I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my elbows on them. The material of the shirt is stiff. It chafes against my chest. A hundred thoughts race through my mind; how can I find Jillian without a phone or wallet? If I don’t have an ID how will I fly home? My head hurts. I’m going to throw up again. How much of the coke did I do last night? Did I have sex yesterday? The last thought I have before my bed mate wakes up and groggily smiles at me is: I had my last drink yesterday.