A Selfish Moment

1 - Saturday - Jubilee - 9:00 AM

The bass drum pounding in my temples seems trivial when my stomach gurgles up a drop of bile into my mouth. I gasp quietly the instant I realize I'm completely naked and lying on someone else's bed. It's not until I try recalling last night's events that I'm paralyzed by a single, dreadful fact: I can't remember how I got here.

When I slide out from under the warm comforter onto the cold hardwood floor, the bedframe creaks and I freeze in place, my body completely exposed. I quickly scan the room, my eyes out of focus, and spot a man asleep on the other side of the bed, on top of the same blankets, wearing checkered pajama pants and a white tee shirt. My eyes finally cooperate and I study his face.

How do I know him? Who is he? Concentrate.

This pillow is hardly big enough to cover my breasts, but I use it anyway and begin the hunt for my clothes. I tiptoe out of the bedroom and pray to the heavens to quickly find my things and make an unnoticed exit from the premises.

Think. Think. What's his name? What happened last night?

My headache spirals left and right with every step, the walls from the bedroom guiding me forward with each nudge against my shoulder. I take long, deep breaths and try to remember his name, our conversations, anything concrete from the last twelve hours. The haze clears slowly. I remember meeting Sophie at The China Blue Lounge. She had a blind date with some guy, and this was his friend. Her date was running late, so Sophie and I had a drink.

That was it.

I avoid alcohol like the plague for fear that I may blackout like I did ten years ago. All it took was a shot of vodka and I woke up in a dorm room I didn't recognize, wearing someone else's clothes. I haven't had any alcohol since. I thought I was safe last night with just one drink, convinced my body had built up some sort of resistance by now. I can't recall how much more I had after that one drink.

In the thick fog, I see the moment Sophie introduced me to her date's friend. He repeated my name with his lips stretching at the vowels, "Juuu-bi-leeee". It was slow and deliberate, or maybe that's just the way my drunken mind recorded the moment. He was boyishly handsome with sunken blue eyes, and a curvy smile that made me so weak I had to look away. Too handsome, I remember thinking as I pulled my hand out of his grip. As much as I tried to avoid them, I was drawn to those deadly blue eyes gazing straight at me. He had me laughing after five minutes, and I remember placing my hand on his arm confidently, repeatedly, as if he was my date, as if he was interested in me, as if we were alone.

I trudge down what feels like the longest corridor in New York City and finally reach a spacious living room with enormous windows stretching from the floor to the ceiling. Although no one from the distant skyline could possibly see me across the river, I still cover myself with the tiny pillow and crouch unsteadily behind his furniture. My raincoat is splayed on the floor next to a black leather sofa across the room. With two graceless hops I cross his area rug and pick up my jacket. It covers me enough to stand straight up and get a better view of the apartment and my escape route. I tug the edge of the raincoat just under my butt as I inch my way around his coffee table, still unable to find my clothes.

After a few minutes, random facts and visions appear in my head: we had several shots; we took a cab to Ninety-Something Street; we kissed in the staircase leading up to his apartment; I'm walking around in my bra; he is holding scissors....why scissors?

"Good morning."

The corner of the console table jabs me in my thigh when I turn around to face the voice greeting me. My bump was hard enough to knock a tray of loose change over the edge of the table, sending ten thousand coins crashing to our feet. After the last tiny penny spins to a complete stop, I whisper an apology.

"Leave it. I'll pick it up later," he says.

He smiles at me from the doorway to his kitchen, and I turn my body completely away from him. The sharp motion causes me to pinch my eyelids shut, pressing them against my eyeballs that feel as if they want to pop out of their sockets. He asks if I would like some coffee in a tone so casual that anyone listening would believe he has been asking me the same questions for years.

I've lost total control of my verbal abilities, shocked by his coolness and how ridiculously attractive he is, even with his messy bed head, so I simply nod. I gawk like a high school girl as he brushes the wavy strands of short hair back from his forehead with one stroke of his right hand.

I don't like the effect he has on me. The best approach to this situation is to find my clothes and leave. It was a one night stand, and God knows I needed one, but that's it. Maybe it's best that I don't remember anything else from last night - who knows what embarrassing things I may have done. If I were anywhere near as uncollected as I am now, I don't want to know about it.

Isaac...that's it...Isaac Something.

My jeans, bra, underwear, and socks are folded neatly in a pile on an antique leather chair placed between two windows. Where's my black turtleneck?

"How do you like your coffee?" His confident voice carries from the kitchen across the living room. "Milk and sugar?"

"Sure."

Where is that damned turtleneck? I lower my head to the cream area rug to look underneath the leather arm chair. I wince at the throbbing in my forehead. The world moves in slow motion as I raise my head up and push to my feet.

"I make a banging cheese omelet, if you're interested." He walks out of the kitchen with two black mugs and sets them down on the glass coffee table in front of the sofa. "What are you looking for?" he asks.

"My turtleneck."

He chuckles and leans back on the couch. There's that delicious smile again.

"It's in the trash. We cut it with the scissors."

"What? Why would I want to cut up my own shirt?"

"It was symbolic, your idea, don't you remember? We -"

"No!" I interrupt. "I'm a forgetful drunk. I black out. I don't remember much of anything that happened last night."

His radiant smile disappears and he apologizes. I feel guilty for lashing out at him, for all I know he was probably a perfect gentleman and I was a drunken mess.

He moves to the edge of the couch. "You wanted to free yourself of sexually oppressive clothing. You took my scissors and cut your turtleneck from the bottom up." He narrows his eyes. "What's the last thing you remember?"

I sit down on the armchair opposite the sofa and take a deep breath, my eyes glancing between him and the area rug. "We danced slowly...we kissed..." I shrug my shoulders and gulp so loud that I'm sure he heard it.

"Wow," he says, sinking back in his seat. "That's sucks. You don't remember anything?"

I begin putting on my socks and shoes with intense concentration. "I'm sorry. I never drink. Last night was...a mistake. I'm just going to leave and save us a lot of embarrassment, okay?" I stand and put on my scarf with slow, deliberate motions, my eyes focus on the ground in an attempt to control the dizziness. I inhale deeply and blow out a large breath of air to ease the nausea.

He sits upright on the sofa again. "It's not okay. Last night was not a mistake. So you were a bit drunk, so what? We...we talked about our careers, movies, relationships, and our families...do you remember any of that?"

"Isaac, please, I'm a blackout drunk. I remember only a few details, not much really, but my head hurts and I just want to put this night behind me."

He closes his eyes, exhales, and glares up at me. He speaks in an octave lower than before. "My name is not Isaac."

He sobers me with the menacing look on his face. I bite back tears of humiliation, and with swift movements I grab my bag and head for the door.