I feel unwell. Not in any specific way. Just vaguely uneasy.

I nurse a rum and coke. It feels thick in my mouth. Syrupy. I switch to rum and ginger ale to try to calm the growing tightness in the bottom of my belly. I can't drink it. It's horrible. So I trade it in but get no further than a couple of sips before I decide that I can't drink the cola either. Yep, I am definitely unwell. In a specific way, now. And I don't want to admit it yet, but vomit is definitely on the horizon. I just need to get out of here, away from the noise and the lights, and I'll be okay. I'll be able to talk myself out of it. I've done it before.

But as I begin to put on my coat, that familiar indefinable urge overwhelms me and I start to walk, swiftly, in the direction of the girls' bathroom. My stomach muscles contract, gas escapes my throat in a sour belch, and I'm running now and I know I'm not going to make it. As I push the door open, my stomach clenches, squeezes, propels the puke upward into my throat and I hold it in my mouth because I haven't quite made it to the toilet. Oh Christ this is horrible. Hot and sour and chunky and there's too much of it I can't hold it can't swallow it and it erupts from my mouth in a foul gush and splashes onto the toilet seat, the floor, my jeans. My stomach heaves and I vomit effortlessly, sushi and strawberry daiquiri, rum and coke, a steaming red stew of filth.

I'm crying now, spitting pieces of puke into the toilet, wiping my mouth with wads of toilet paper. I wipe the vomit from the toilet seat, clean the floor, flush it all away. Run the tap until the water is cold, rinse my mouth, spit. Rinse again. My reflection is a mess.

I leave the bathroom as two girls enter. I have been blessedly alone in my ordeal. I get my coat and walk out into the cold night.