Free How Not To Fall by Emily Foster Page A

feels okay.
    I blindly feel around me and find my phone, which I check for the time, and I find this enlightening series of texts from the night before, which I read through a haze.
    Â 
    I cn se your pantis poodlepie.
    Â 
    Annie?
    What. What. What have I done? Oh, sweet motherfucking Jesus, I texted Charles Douglas that I could see his panties. I called him poodlepie.
    I read on.
    Â 
    Sorry thoght you wre Magrt. Easy mitsak amirite.
    Â 
    Would I be wrong in supposing that you’ve had a drink or two?
    Â 
    No, sirreebob. No, you would not. Except yes. I had clearly had more than two. So that would, in fact, be wrong.
    Â 
    Anie is to drnk to text now ples leave a brief mesag after the beek.
    Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
    Â 
    Where are you?
    Â 
    divas where yo/?
    Â 
    The Lion. Have you got a lift home?
    Â 
    No.
    Marbey drivig mr.
    Â 
    What?
    Do you have a safe way to get home? YES OR NO
    Â 
    WY ARE YOU TELLING YEING YELLING
    Â 
    BECAUSE THE MUSIC IS VERY LOUD IN HERE. TURN ROUND.
    Â 
    Bits of memory assemble themselves in my brain as I read. Margaret on the dance floor, her underwear visible over the top of her jeans. Charles dropping into the chair beside mine. Dancing down Kirkwood Avenue, singing, possibly, “Let It Go,” and possibly—no. Not possibly. Definitely taking off my clothes. I look under the covers at my body and find I’m in my camisole and underwear. Shit. Balls. Shit balls. Who was there? Who was there?! Whose bed am I in?! Fuuuuuck!
    â€œFuck,” I say out loud. I close my eyes again and lie there with my hands over my face. I’ve had hangovers before, but this is an order of magnitude beyond anything I’ve experienced.
    â€œHello,” a voice says. “You among the living?”
    It’s Charles. Does this make it easier or harder to cope with reality?
    â€œI’m not really sure,” I say through my hands.
    There’s noise, and then I feel movement on the bed—Charles sitting on the far side.
    â€œPlease don’t move the bed,” I beg quietly. I move my hands to my stomach. I haven’t reopened my eyes yet. “I don’t feel good.”
    â€œAh, poor you,” he says. It sounds kind, even though I think he might be being facetious. “Remember much?”
    â€œFlashes. It’d be really interesting from a memory-consciousness point of view if it weren’t so frickin’ scary.”
    â€œYou’re all right. You just drank too fast.”
    â€œAm I at your place? How did I get here?”
    â€œNo one was in a state to take you home, so I walked you here as the safest place to sleep it off.”
    â€œDid I ...” I lick my dry, sticky lips with my dry, sticky tongue. “Um. Was ‘Let It Go’ in any way involved?”
    â€œIndeed it was,” he answers softly but eagerly. “Never again will I hear that song without thinking of you.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
    â€œI’m going to open my eyes now,” I say. “And then I’m going to sit up.”
    â€œOkay,” he says.
    â€œAnd then, depending how that goes, I might throw up, or I might pass out.”
    â€œThere is a bin immediately to your right,” he says, placid.
    I tug my gummy eyelids open. That goes okay. The room is dark, sunlight coming in through breaks in the curtains. I tentatively lift myself to a sitting position, tucking the blankets under my armpits. That, too, goes okay.
    â€œI think some water would be good,” I say, not yet able to look at Charles.
    â€œThere’s some on the nightstand there.”
    I reach over and find a Nalgene with a sipper in it. The bottle is sweaty and cool, like ice water that’s been sitting for hours.
    It tastes. Like. Nectar. It tastes like springtime. It tastes . . . a little minty, actually.
    â€œOh my god, that’s good,” I moan, still not looking at Charles. “What time is it?” I never did