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Bloggy Blog #5

It's Tuesday morning, and he refuses to wear pants. In part because he doesn't know where they are. In part because they may or may not have a hole in the crotch. He didn't check as they were flung off in the haste rage that ended his night. This one's curled up on the bathroom floor, the top of her head resting snug against the cool ceramic toilet. All through the night, she was coughing, maybe crying - he couldn't tell. Someone made coffee. He yanks a mug from the cupboard, reaches for some sweetener. He cringes for a bit as the cold barstool connects with his wafer-thin boxers. The coffee's a cheap hazelnut mix he didn't buy, but enjoys anyway. The kitchen immediately overlooks the living room, where the usual accessories are strewn about - boxers, bra, condom wrapper. Must have gone at it right there, on the couch. That's alright with him, sucking on his shitty coffee. 

The sequence of events leading up to right now seem fuzzy, as usual. There may have been a party. She may have danced with him, pulling him onto the dance floor. Him, reluctant to do so because he has the deft moves of a musk ox. Her, refusing this small ordeal because she felt this attraction, this draw of someone cute eyeing her from afar, doing nothing about it. 
She danced, he jerked around. He may have had a drink. By this point of the evening she may have been double-fisting. Working the room. Collecting numbers. Judging them all in her mind, ranking them -which to call first. Who gets dropped in the ashtray, out the window? 

The phone rings, first time in three weeks. It's Jerry, wondering what the hell happened. 
"Dude, are you alright?"
"Sure."
"Cool. Is she still there?"
"I guess so. I haven't looked."
"You haven't looked?"
"I haven't looked. Someone made coffee."
"Hrm. Well, go find her for me and tell her to drop off the ironing board at 43rd and Lexington."
"Will do, sport."

In the bathroom, she's out cold and curled up by the can. There's nothing mysterious about this - no empty booze or pill bottles, no razor blades, just your average stark naked gal on the cold tile of a bathroom. She's twenty-four, or at least that's what she told him. Her fire-red hair curls down and around her face, a few locks dangling in the toilet water. She goes by Hannah, but she’s lied about that before.

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