There’s a reason I don’t drink vodka, even though it’s kind enough to spin the room for me and leave without the painful morning after. But last night I forgot.
So I sat on the cracked linoleum floor of this apartment on Hartwick and did shots out of Dixie cups, chased with watered-down Sprite, and then
I was at some bar, drinking it drowned in Red Bull, listening to shitty house music and this frat boy telling me how he’s gonna inherit his father’s company one day and pretending not to notice
how low his hand kept slipping on my low rise jeans.
He was tan and tall and big and wrong but I danced with him anyway.
Killed another few shots laced with green-apple-something and lost my earring somewhere between the bar and the dance floor when he leaned in and I leaned out,
thinking about how awful it is that you both wear the same cologne.
I know I said I wouldn’t, but
Vodka makes me miss you.
No comments:
Post a Comment