february fifteenth 🖤 conor oberst

five

Conor

The morning after the party, I wake up in an unfamiliar bedroom.

The ghost of a headache settles behind my eyes as I sit up, squinting at the sunlight flooding into the room. Perplexed, I find my focus fixed on the window, draped with thin, cream-colored curtains.

Pulling my knees up to my chest, I glance around the rest of the place, looking for clues as to just where I am.

The walls are painted a neutral off-white. One or two pictures hang in white frames, though I can't exactly tell what's inside them from here. Other than that, there's nothing particularly telling about it.

I breathe a sigh, beginning to feel the keen ache of a hangover spread throughout my body as the blanket of sleep begins to fade away.

Judging by the light, I don't think that it's too terribly late. Maybe it would make me feel better to just sleep for a little while longer.

Yeah, I decide. That sounds like a good idea.

I stretch my sore limbs before collapsing back against the soft pillow behind my head. Pulling the covers up to my chin, I turn over on my side. I'm just about to close my eyes when I identify the peculiar shape lying beside me.

A body.

My already-ailing stomach turns as I take note of the pale hair strewn out across the pillow next to mine.

Holy shit.

It's Summer.

Just like that, I'm wide awake, sitting back up. Head spinning, I attempt to mentally recount the events of last night.

I remember the crowd in the living room, Summer and Julie's limbs all tangled. I remember the joint in my hand, the clear night sky. I remember Summer joining me in the backyard, wrapping her lips around the joint so easily, handing me an orange as a truce.

The memories stop at the orange.

I sit frozen, an unfamiliar bedspread wrapped around me, feeling nauseous. Summer's back rises and falls with her steady breathing as she sleeps, blissfully unaware of the panic overtaking me.

Have I really managed to do the same regrettable thing with her as I do with every other girl?

Did I really capture her sympathy, get blackout drunk, then get into her pants without even remembering it?

Shame steadily eating away at me, I throw the covers aside.

It's official: I've fucked it all up.

I pause just long enough to look at her as I swing my legs over the bed and pat the floor in search of my shoes, beginning the first steps to forgetting that any of this ever happened.

She slept in her makeup, - there's a lipstick imprint on her arm, mascara smeared beneath her eyes. Her hair falls every which way around her, appearing to take on a mind of its own. Every now and then, a soft sound will pass her lips, - maybe real words, some parts of her dreams that I can't understand.

I can feel my heartbeat in my throat as I swallow.

She's a wreck, truly, but I can't look away.

Even in such an utterly imperfect state, it is all too easy for me to understand how she has served as a muse to so many other men.

Ashamed of myself, I force myself to turn back around.

My mind echoes the dread in the pit of my stomach.