Turning Point [ONC 2022]

06. Hangovers & Chocolate Croissants

For the second time in less than a week, I wake up with a raging hangover.

Damn 3B. Damn her to hell. The shitty hell where shitty neighbors that bring shitty whiskey go.

She only left my place at about half eleven last night, an hour after the electricity finally came back on. The cup of tea that we had to sober up has done nothing to stave off the pulsing head ache and nausea. I have no idea why I thought it would. But with two thirds of the bottle finished, a hot beverage seemed like the best invention since choc-chip ice cream.

Ah damn. Shouldn't have thought that. Here come the cravings. And I know for a fact that I don't have any in my sad wasteland of a freezer.

I slither out of my bed at snail pace, crawling my way to the kitchen to switch the kettle on. It's only there that I realize the incessant knocking isn't the banging headache that throbs at my temples. Someone's at my door.

Judging by the continuous pounding, it's probably Mrs. Prescott ready to complain about my new found drinking habit. I would be willing to bet that she knows about last night. The woman has eyes in the back of her head. Or maybe she's installed cameras in my apartment. I wouldn't put it past the old bag.

Come to think of it, she's been noticeably absent from my doorway this last week. Maybe she's gone on holiday? Or maybe she's waiting to attack when I'm at my weakest, which would be right now considering the hangover currently waging war on my poor, defenseless body.

I hesitate at the door, now fully convinced that my downstairs neighbor is on the other side, waiting to berate me for my bad habits. What if she knows about last week as well? What if she tells Mr. Singh that he must kick me out? What if-

No. I'm being ridiculous and paranoid. What I do in my apartment is my business, and the shame that coils in my gut has nothing to do with the wicked witch of 2A and everything to do with my lack of work ethic. Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath that floods my nostrils with the smell of stale alcohol and sweat, and open the door.

"3B?" I utter in surprise when she's revealed to be on the other side. I'd prepared myself for a different evil. Now I'm faced with noisy instead of nosy and I'm not sure which is preferable. "Sorry, I mean Gabby."

She looks a little better off than I feel, but only by an inch. Her hair is still damp from the shower and she wears a large light blue shirt and leggings. Cute, fluffy slippers encase her feet as she shuffles past me towards my kitchen, a heavenly smell accompanying her.

"Oh good." She smiles when she sees my kettle boiling merrily from its position by the stove. "I'm desperate for coffee."

"Uh, can I help you?" My hand stays clasped to the door as I watch her incredulously. Who the hell does she think she is, strutting around my apartment as if she owns the place?

She lifts up a paper bag I hadn't noticed before, triumphantly shaking it with a grin. "I brought chocolate croissants."

Well, why didn't she start with that?

I finally close the door and make my way over to the kitchen. The remnants of our binge the previous night litter my counter; empty glasses, spilled whiskey, a used tea bag and two half-drunk mugs. Ignoring it all for the time being, I pull two new cups from the cupboard, heaping sugar and coffee into them. A slosh of milk, some boiling water, a half-hearted stir, and I decide that's the best I can offer under these conditions.

I slide one over to her, not giving a damn if that's how she takes it or not, and bring the other to my lips, blowing it softly before taking a tentative sip. "I feel like crap," I admit.

"I feel like horse shit," she says. I bite back a laugh, the aching in my head reminding me that loud noises will not be a good idea today.

"I blame you," I tell her. "You pour whiskey like a retiring bartender."