Vomit (4)

Suddenly desperate to get out of the cab. This is good, I mumble to the driver. Here is fine. I shove my cabmate a twenty, stumble out of the car. I can't walk in a straight line at the best of times, let alone after a half a bottle of wine, a couple of malibu and fruit juices, countless rum and cokes, and a shot. For a slight girl, I sure can pound them back.

Not always without consequences, of course.

The night is cool, and lovely. The breeze an ancient lover's caress on my bare skin.That sounds ridiculous. All I mean is that the wind is old, as old as the earth, and soothing. A sensual comfort in this, my time of need.

Tomorrow is garbage day in suburbia. Identical grey trash cans line the street, blue recycling bins their dance partners. Cars tucked snugly into their driveways for the night. The air smells faintly of refuse, of freshly-mown lawns, of gasoline, of dandelions and dew.

My stomach heaves. Taking me by surprise. In the moment between the heave and the upheaval, I cast about vainly for a proper receptacle. Unwilling to puke into a garbage can, because collecting trash is probably unpleasant enough without the addition of fresh vomit, I bend over at the waist and spill my guts, hot and wet and thick, into the gutter. Careful not to puke on my shoes. My nose runs, my eyes water. I cry and spit, gagging on the stringy bits that stick in the back of my throat. God, what I would give for a glass of water. But the amount of vomit is surprisingly small, and I feel immensely better having rid myself of it. I also feel kind of shitty about puking into someone's gutter, and hope that ants have cleaned the mess up by morning. Mother Nature's trash collectors.

And I stumble the rest of the way home in the cool night air.

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