Jeff Buckley

II

When my eyes opened I was unsure whether or not I was really awake. If not for the hum of the cars and midnight bustle outside I would've fallen right back to sleep, thinking nothing more of it than lucid dreaming. It was dark, dark enough that I couldn't see my own naked body draped in someone else's low thread count sheets. Dark enough that I could ignore the shame I felt, the absence of light diminishing the darkness I felt.

3:37 AM, the glaring red blocked letters screamed at me from the unfamiliar alarm clock on the foreign wooden bedside table. I groaned slightly as I shifted in the itchy cotton, or by the feel of it, perhaps burlap. As I tried to slink out of the stranger's bed, I could feel the hot, humid air of the summer city night envelop me, replacing the cling of the staticky fabric as it fell off me. The glaring city lights from the ajar window, the light click of the clock, the creak of the apartments warped floorboards, the sickly touch the air held, it all felt like a punishment for my impure decisions, one I felt almost every time.

I heard him shift from across the room as I opened the door that led into the apartment building hallway, shutting it behind me with a thud. I walked clumsily, the remnants of bad sex leaving my body feeling hollow, a hangover pulling at the rubber bands of my brain until they felt they would snap.

I didn't remember much, the transition from Ezra's flat to the bar down the street, from there to someone's bed, someone I didn't even know the name of, only recollecting the tacky overgrown fade of his haircut, how it itched under my fingers. His hair was dark maybe, perhaps his eyes were blue. I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember how many glasses of shitty boxed wine I drank, nor how many Old Fashioneds or shots followed. I felt sick. I didn't want to go back to my apartment. I walked the street for what could've been an hour or eight minutes. The stoplights ahead of me jutted out in millions of points, artificial stars, beautiful, yet leaving something to be desired.

Maybe it was fate that pushed me into that telephone booth, my hand trembling as I held a quarter up to the slot. I could hear my heavy breathing over the sound of rushing cars as I debated punching in the sudoku that decorated my hand. Lavenders kept ticking through my head, the gentle strumming leaving me swaying in the booth, or maybe it was the wine still lingering. But as the quarter was half way in, I had half a mind to realize what I was doing. This was a coincidence, I was being delusional. The moment any man looks at me with anything but drunken lust, I lose myself in lies that I continue to feed. Besides, even if it was more than my lovesick mind playing tricks on me, it was nearly 4 in the morning. I wasn't so cruel to jar the man I didn't even know the last name of awake.

I sighed, groaning as I leant forward, head resting on the stained and sullied glass surrounding me. So much for rose-colored glasses.

I walked right past my tiny brick apartment building. I didn't know where I was going. Maybe Ezra's. Maybe if I just laid right back on that couch she'd think I just fell asleep there, not that sleep would come. I finally approached her doorstep, a worn down "Welcome!" mat inviting me in, unfittingly jovial for the environment I was surrounding myself in. Bending down with a stumble, I found the key she kept under it in case of such occasions, jamming it into the lock and throwing myself in.

It took all I could to not scream when I turned around after shutting the door. I had expected to be welcomed by darkness, not a shirtless Jeff marching with a glass of water back into his room.

In the vague silence between delight and fright, we stared at each other, shock overtaking any other emotion.

"Are you alright?" Jeff finally broke the silence, setting the glass down on the kitchen table not too far away.

I believe I was still very drunk, from regrettable sex, lust, or alcohol, I wasn't sure. Kicking my dark Chelsea boots off, I stumbled forwards, almost practically into his arms. He caught me from arms length away, staring down at me with empathy, or perhaps pity.