Lost [ENG]

𝟖. 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓

Brian picked me up a few minutes later and in a time that I found it hard to define, during which the driver and their girlfriend made fun of me because of my terrible defeat at beer pong, I found myself in my mother's house.

I staggered into the house, took off my shoes and took off my coat and fell asleep on the living room sofa.

The next morning, when I woke up, the first impact with reality was a very strong headache. I put my hand to my temple, as if that simple gesture could even slightly ease the pain.

I didn't know if it was morning or late afternoon, nor how many hours I'd slept; the only thing I was sure of was that my mother was awake, considering the muffled voices coming from the kitchen television.

I got on my side, but my head throbbed harder than I expected, and a sudden nausea went up in my throat.

"Fuck Matt ..." I said to myself, bringing one hand to my chest and sitting on the sofa. I sighed, trying to calm my body's excessive reactions to the obvious too much alcohol I had taken the night before.

I had never gotten drunk, at least not to that point, or not in the last ten years. I suddenly felt old thinking that the last time I went too far with alcohol was in college. I shook my head slightly in an attempt to dismiss the thought, but this only caused me a further throb in my temples. I thought about calling my mom, if only to get the light on, but I was sure she hadn't noticed that I had woken up, and I didn't want to worry her with a sudden desperate cry of help. I got up and to my surprise, the room around me, although dimly lit, did not seem to turn too much: it was a good sign, wasn't it?

I walked towards the door that separated me from the corridor, and the light coming in from the window at the end of it forced me to put a hand to my eyes, still accostumed to the dark. I moved with less and less difficulty towards the kitchen and only at that moment, I realized not only that I was still wearing the clothes from last night, but also that they smelled of smoke, alcohol and sweat.

My nausea suddenly increased. How could I smell like smoke if no one had touched a cigarette all night? Perhaps it had been the fault of the fireplace that had remained on for the whole time of the party. I ran a hand over my dry lips and like a flash, I remembered Rebecca and our moment. Annoyance rose in me at the thought of me being able to handle the situation at best. I was seriously afraid that this could have compromised my relationship with Rebecca. This would have ruined not only a beautiful long-term friendship, but also made many situations at work uncomfortable.

I sighed, thinking back to her response after I told her I still love my wife: "We have to move on and allow ourselves to finally be fine."

I grabbed the handle and perhaps too hard, pushed it down. I opened the door slightly and found my mother, not next to the stove busy managing the mocha as the previous morning, but at the table sipping coffee, already ready since, perhaps, several minutes.

"Matthew, honey," she said, rolling her eyes. I hadn't seen myself in the mirror, but I was sure I didn't look good.

"Good morning, but" I said, rubbing one eye and then yawning, "Is there some coffee for me too?"

My mother, with her usual calm, sometimes unjustified, cleared with her lips the excessive sugar on the spoon used to mix the coffee, and then put it back in the empty cup, generating a slight clicking sound. She stood up and smiled at me.

"I'll make it for you right away, I didn't know what time you'd wake up," she said, as if she had to justify not letting me find the coffee ready as soon as I woke up.

I thought that considering my passive and exclusively consumer conditions adopted for more than two days, I certainly shouldn't complain about this insignificant shortcoming.

I smiled back and then sat down at the table. My mother prepared the coffee machine, then brought me a glass and a jug of water full to the brim. She did not need to tell me what to do: her slightly intimidating gaze was enough, which contained in addition to a silent scolding, the obligation to drink as much water as I could, to avoid collapsing.
"You came back late last night, you weren't driving, did you?" my mother asked, wiping her hands with a rag.

I suddenly felt like an irresponsible teenager, and I realized in that moment that I had done a great deal of bullshit drinking so much, more if it was for a stupid game.

"No, don't worry" I said. "I was in the hands of a responsible driver".

I thought of Brian, without whom I might not even have returned home.
I thought I should have found the time to thank him at least one more time.

"How did you know I came back late? Did you wait for me awake? "
I asked, filling the second glass of water.

"I thought about it, but then when I realized you were 27, I decided to avoid it. It was the "responsible driver" at 3.30, the time you returned home, who woke me up with a skid in the curve before our street "she said, still busy with the coffee machine, but with a tone not bothered, as probably relieved at the thought that this highly irresponsible action was not my doing.

I had no memory of Brian doing such a thing, and I began to fantasize about what I could say about it from the top of my drunkenness. A laugh escaped me, imagining the scene.
I also heard my mother chuckle, before turning to me and handing me the coffee, for which I felt I had no more space in my stomach, given the perhaps excessive amount of water I had just drank. I mixed some sugar to stall while my mother sat next to me. She put on a dark, worried expression, and that wasn't a good sign, as it seemed to me that I had already dissolved the reasons why she might have been worried all night.

I brought the steaming cup up to my lips, sipped some coffee and then realized that I was not physically able to take something so strong, and I rested the cup on the saucer.

"Mom, what's wrong?" I asked, tilting my head, which slowly began to hurt me less and less. My mother looked up and stopped it in mine, but she said nothing. "Mum!" I exclaimed, albeit keeping calm.

"Last night ..." my mother began, without looking into my face. "... Marisha called." I suddenly got a lump in my throat and a tightening in my stomach, which was not the best for my hangover.

"She was very worried, Matthew, she really was. I felt that she was trying with all her strength not to cry. She asked of you, of course. She asked how you were, where you were, although I think she knew very well, considering that probably I was the first person to have called. I tried to be generic and to remain calm, also because otherwise, I don't know what I would have told her .. " she said, ending the sentence in a lower tone. My lips rose in a sweet smile, as touched by my mother's words:
I was well aware of her extremely pacifist soul, and I knew that she would never say anything bad to Marisha, at the most she would accuse her of a few wrong minutes in the cooking of the turkey, on Thanksgiving a few years ago. I pushed away the cup still full of steaming coffee, pushing it towards the center of the table, hoping that my mother would pick up on my aversion to the coffee, which I myself had requested.
I reached out my hands to her, and squeezed hers in mine.

"What do you think I should do?" I asked her. It was not my style to ask such direct questions and to which only a dry, clear answer was expected, which did not reveal any uncertainty. Likewise, my mother was not used to answering to those ones, but yet the expression that immediately followed my question did not reveal any kind of concern about it. In fact, she seemed very sure about the answer to give me.