The Bad Part of Drunk

The walk home was like swimming through lukewarm water. She was not okay, and she was alone — now she was, at least. Her clothes were damp, her shoes warm and her socks sweaty as she peeled them off her feet between her thumb and forefinger.

She stepped into bed, world curving to one side. Her eyes were unfocused, and she slept for five minutes at a time, waking up in between to watch the paint chips dance across her walls.

Twisting in her sheets, she struggled with her clothes, pulling off her shirt but letting it hang off one arm, unfolding her legs from the denim, and her underwear, too, and the air around her was cold, so cold it sobered her a little, and she focused enough to pull the sheets around her. She slept through the morning in two-hour intervals.

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