So. You lost another fight.
Paid a girl (Chastity? Charity?) to keep you company. Lick your wounds. The sutures in your lip tore while the two of you were making out. Blood and saliva slicked her face but she didn’t stop. Protestant work ethic.
When she finished with you you tried to tell her about the fight. The way the crowd roared. The smell of sweat and tiger balm. How you bobbed when you should’ve weaved. The right right left barrage that left you flat on your ass staring into the LEDs above the ring. She didn’t want to hear it.
Ordered a pizza once she left. It was a good thing you came to the door shirtless because the delivery girl was cute and the Canadian sunset Dachau David beat into your chest seemed to impress her. Or scare her. You thought about saying “you should see the other guy” but stopped yourself because you remembered that the other guy was 126 pounds of pure Aryan muscle and didn’t have a scratch on him. Instead you said thanks and tipped more than you should’ve hoping she’d get the hint and be your girlfriend. No such luck. But you did get a good look at her ass as she turned and walked down the hall.
Sat down on the couch and watched TV while you ate. Technicolor friends dancing and laughing and singing just for you. Started in on the 24 pack of Bud Light you’d been keeping in the fridge halfway through the second episode of Seinfeld. One blue can turned into three and soon you found yourself with your head in the toilet heaving up a combination of pizza and cheap beer. When you first started puking you thought it was the blood you had swallowed. Fluorescent red 3M Dawn of the Dead blood. Managed to purge enough of the alcohol to make the world go from Tilt-a-Whirl to Lazy Susan so you slumped back against the wall and closed your eyes.
The girl was long gone by then but laying on the tile floor in the bathroom you wished she were still there with you. Stroking your hair. Helping you get into bed. You realized you weren’t thinking about Chastity anymore and started to cry.
Fumbled through the pockets of your sweatpants and found your phone. Featherweight boxing is only slightly more respectable than midget wrestling but Mary thought it was hot. Maybe she still does you thought hopefully. Drunkenly.
Scrolled through your contacts. Family you are afraid to talk to. Friends you don’t want to. Fast food. Looking for her. Looking for Mary. You found her between Marco’s Pizza and Mom. By the time you realized you shouldn’t call the phone was already pressed to your ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” The indoor pool acoustics of the bathroom brought your own voice back to you. Slurred. Lisping. Hoarse.
“What do you want?”
“I miss you.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“And?”
“Are you drunk?” and then a man’s voice from the background “Who is that, babe?”
You called her a whore and hung up. Fuck. So much for that. You ordered another pizza and hoped you’d get the same delivery girl.
With a slim resume of prose and poetry that girls have variously described as “captivating” and “like Rupi Kaur” depending on how attractive they found him, Dawson Wohler is one of the most promising new voices in the Northwest Ohio literary scene. Follow him on Twitter here.
