I managed to give him a hybrid look between ‘are you kidding’ and ‘you evil bastard’ but judging from his subsequent smirk it must have looked like a bug had flown into my eye. He scooted me over and sat down. Took the drink from my hands and brough it to his lips, only to return it again.”

“Good stuff. So are you staying here for the night?”

“Im joining a convent in the morning.”

He laughed and tried to pull me upright, but by this time I had gone completely limp and felt like dead weight being shifted. So he laid me back down, hooked his arms under mine and put me upright like a ragdoll. And that’s how I felt.

“You alright?”

I nodded.

My slur disgusted me – the more I tried to speak normally, the lazier my tongue was, clumsily falling against the walls of my mouth. Come to think of it, I must have looked a pitiful sight, sitting there, looking at him forlornly. Quietly begging forgiveness for just being a female who wanted to be loved.

He gave me a quick hug and tucked the bottles under his arm.

“Go to sleep Arden. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

And with that he left.

Outside there were people snaking home, shouting lyrics to songs that didn’t register in my inebriated mind. Laughing, falling over in the dark.

I decided that if I’m going to be sitting here alone anyway I might as well try to sober up somewhat. I can’t eat , if I put anymore into my stomach I may just throw up, so I’ll just starve instead. Husserl’s mind-body philosophy comes to mind - for once my body and mind is feeling the same thing. Maybe my love for my bottled friend can be justified by some smart-ass philosopher.

Maybe I’m just trying to merge my body and mind so that I can feel some version of wholeness these stupid self-help books keep ranting on about. I hate self-help books. I can imagine a pompous, black-moustached, pudgy psychologist sitting behind a desk thinking up random things to diagnose us mortals with. His library of pages filled with jargon and statistics to back him up. We’re just grasshoppers in his glass jar. And I’m the only one who sees this huge motherfucking eye looking at me. I feel so selfconscious I could die.

Instead, I sidle up closer to the edge of the couch and pass out.

The shy morning rays gradually became more demanding and forced one eye open with its sheer illumination. I tried to sit up but once the blood started moving I just slid back down…my head didn’t hurt, it was just as if someone had tried cramming 5 years’ worth of newspapers in there. It felt cramped and dusty. As my eyes tried to find a still-standing spot on the ceiling , the last night’s events returned like syrup : slowly and bittersweetly. I suddenly got a monstrous urge to drink a reservoir’s worth of water and proceeded to get up, but painstakingly slowly.