Grapes Upside Down

26. Piscola (Noah)

~Noah~

As I stumble backwards in an effort not to vomit directly into Madisen's mouth, my brain is screaming for a way to assure her that I really, really want to continue the kiss.

I rush to the bathroom, bouncing among sweaty dancers like a battered pinball, making it inside one of the stalls not a moment too soon. Regurgitated humitas saturated in Piscola spews in the general direction of the toilet.

As soon as I catch a breath from the stream of nastiness exiting my body, my first moment of awareness is that I'm pissed. I never drink myself to the point of illness, ever. I can count on the fingers of less than one hand the number of times.

The next emotion that crashes through me like a salty ocean wave forced down my throat is desperation. What must Madisen be thinking right now? That I hated the kiss and straight up ran away from her? That kissing her caused me to start puking? I want to die.

Armani busts through the stall.

"Noah," he calls. "Jesus! I saw you run in here with a face the shade of green eggs and ham."

"I kissed Madisen," I groan miserably.

"Um, okay. Wow... uh, is that what made you throw up?"

"No... fuck."

In a twisted way, I think it was though. Obviously I drank too much, but all the emotions along with the accompanying intense physical desire mixed together were too much, and I combusted.

"I also told her I loved her."

"What?!"

I lean my head in agony against the stall door.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing. I doubt she heard me, or if she did she assumed I was joking." My words slur together.

"That's why you kissed? Did you kiss her or she kissed you?"

"No. No, I'm not explaining it right..." I grip the open door of the stall, caught in the vortex between fighting off another bout of vomit and falling asleep standing up. Except when I close my eyes, the blackness hurtles me into a violently spinning carnival ride; I peel my eyelids open as I attempt to steady myself, but my weight causes the door to swing and slam against the adjacent stall, nearly landing me in a heap on the piss-saturated floor.

"Jesus," Armani mutters, bolstering me upright.

Another round of sickness follows, and I'm vaguely regretful over the fact that most of it lands on the toilet seat and floor, despite my best efforts at aiming.

"She kissed me..." I trail off and give up on forming a coherent sentence as Armani leads me to the sink, where I rinse my mouth and scrub whatever vomit I can off myself with scratchy brown paper towels.

When I exit the bathroom, Armani facilitating my attempts to walk in the same manner as my littlest sister used to drag around her Raggedy Anne doll, Madisen is waiting anxiously by the door.

"Noah! Oh my gosh, are you sick?" She rushes to my side, and I'm mortified at the fact she's touching my arms and without a doubt getting a nose-full of putrid vomit stench. Of course she shows no signs of being bothered or even noticing, because she's a fucking angel.

"Madicita..." I whisper, because that's all the strength that remains in my body. There is so much I need to tell her. How fucking gorgeous she looks in that dress, a lone shimmering emerald in a pitch-black cave. That I wanted to dance every single dance tonight with her, but I had to pace myself because the way that neckline dips down at her cleavage all pressed together was going to give me a fucking heart attack before midnight. How fucking hot her ass was circling my front as my desire pulsed into her.

The way my over-sentimentalized and meaning-seeking brain transported me with every lyric tonight...

There's nothing holding me back...

Robarte un beso...

Best fucking night of my life...

...to the moment when we would finally escape from the delicious, reckless, suffocating chaos of the disco into the iced night air, where I was going to tell her exactly how I feel about her.

Tomorrow, when I no longer reek of vomit, that's exactly what I'm going to do. And I know this isn't the alcohol making me delirious. It's time.

I spin 180 degrees, my arms twisting out of Madisen's concerned grasp, and burst back through the restroom door for another round of puking.

"Let's go get a colectivo," Madisen tells me when I careen out of the men's room for the second time.

"You stay," I mumble, flapping my arms at her in a spastic motion, making up for my inability to pronounce words with large hand gestures. "I don't want to ruin your night."

"Don't be silly, Noah! I'm going home with you."

Armani walks me outside with her. The night packs around us like blocks of ice, but the fresh air settles my nausea. As Madisen runs a soothing hand along my back, I groan in misery at my current reality.

When a colectivo screeches to a halt in front of us, Madisen expels an understated gasp.

"I forgot my jacket," she tells Armani in Spanish. "Wait for me here; I'll be right back!"

Armani tugs me back as I attempt to board the colectivo.

"Aren't you going to wait for your girl?"

"I need to sit down." I collapse into the front seat of the vehicle. "Lo siento por el vómito." I apologize to the driver like the moron that I am for being covered in vomit. He doesn't respond.

"Dude, I don't think he's gonna wait..." Cars veer around us, blaring their horns, the sharp sounds piercing into me yet floating a million miles away at the same time.

Armani explains to the driver that my girlfriend will be right out, but I interrupt him.

"Nah, I'm going home. Make sure she gets back alright, yeah?"

Heh, my girlfriend. That sounds nice.

As Armani protests, I close the car door in his face. My intentions are not to be a dickhead, but I've made my decision and don't have the communication skills currently to convince him with words.

He throws up his hands, shakes his head and chuckles.

"Avenida General, Viña," I tell the driver.

Texting Madisen proves extremely difficult, but I manage to peck out:

Fui a casa. Have fun. Lo siento.

She replies a couple minutes later.

Noah! With that consternated emoji that's got one eyebrow crocked. I was supposed to go with you!

Nos vemos mañana.

I attempt to send a kiss-blowing emoji, but a raccoon keeps getting in the way. On the way back from Pucón today, Madisen and I kept texting from across the bus; I was making fun of her for the time she confused the word for the indigenous group Mapuches for the nocturnal animal mapaches, while she was jeering me over the photos she captured of my various poses with llamas and ostriches at the vineyard.

When I click to send, I see I've managed to select both the kissy lips and the raccoon. Fantastic.

I release a dramatic, prolonged groan that sounds like an entitled adolescent boy whose mom has forgotten to spread mayonnaise on his sandwich. My stoic chauffeur glares, causing me to crack up, likely pissing him off even further.

Madisen texts me back a llama.

God, I love her.

This is all going to be fine.

Can't wait to talk to you tomorrow, I text her in my mind, because my fingers are boneless and my eyes are glued shut as if I have pink eye.

And kiss you again, sober, I think, and then ask you on a proper date.

Three minutes later, I puke all over myself in the front seat of the colectivo.