The Older Man

Thirteen

I woke up on the couch in a pool of vomit. My immediate reaction was to add to this pool, but my hemorrhaging headache distracted me from the filth of the situation. Sun was shining through the sheer curtains. And let me tell you, the sun during the winter—especially a New York winter—acted as a natural high beam. 

Especially when you're the most hungover you've ever been. And that's being conservative. I was never a big drinker. In fact, my favorite alcoholic beverage was champagne because I liked the bubbles and orange juice.

Registering the acidity of my breath and the vomit on my pants, suffice to say the culprit of this foul puddle was me. Naturally, the next step was to clean the crime scene. Thus, I needed to make sure there wasn't a witness around who could testify to my blunder.

Examining the scene, I noted one large body thrown across the broken down leather couch. He was in his boxers. His legs were muscular and thick. His ass was—well to be modest—delectable. And he had a full beard and head of hair: a rarity for men his age. A unicorn of masculine sexiness. I was fortunate to find that he was asleep and by the smell of him, he, too, had puked. I mean, his clothes were on the ground next to him atop a suspicious puddle.

I could have vomited some more, but the desire to hide the crime was too pertinent.

The first step is to objectify my puke. Treat it like cat or dog hurl. I mean, really, the only difference between the two is that animal puke is smaller and has chunks of kibble while mine is larger and has chunks of carrots and peas. 

The second step is to get a rag (particularly one you don't mind being stained orange). Then, find a bucket in the supply closet you didn't know your boyfriend had. Even though you definitely walked by it everyday. Take the bucket and the rag and begin scooping bits of the puke up. Try to look away. This is extremely humiliating. 

Then, when the rag is either drenched in your own vomit or you succesfully threw most of the clump in the bucket, take it to the sink. Dump the evidence in the drain and use the very fancy faucet your boyfriend has to rise the rag and bucket. 

Step four: do step three again. 

The fifth step is to find the mop you didn't know your boyfriend had. Then look under your boyfriends sink for fabuloso. When you find it, have a brief think about which girlfriend trained him because there is no way he knows this by random chance. 

Then, creature your mixture. Thank all that is good that he has wooden floors because cleaning a carpet would be far more trauamtizing. Then, think about how the living room needs a rug. A persian style shag rug. Maybe red with some sage green in it? And while we're on the living room, a nice potted plant would look good by the window. 

Hopefully, your thoughts about decorating the apartment have gotten you through the work, because when I looked down the puke was gone and the bucket was orange. Note, tomato soup and margaritas do not mix well. Too much acidity. 

Then, there was the issue of Elijah's pile. 

While a sick part of me thought it would be hilarious for him to wake up and witness his crime, I also could sense the second-hand humiliation. It was too great to bear. I did what any good girlfriend would do: I grabbed his putrid clothes and threw them in the washing machine and got to work on his puddle. When all was said and done, he was still sleeping like a log. The living room look okay. Not clean by any means, but there was certainly less vomit. Though, the stench was absolutely unlivable. Thus, I lit our favorite candle, wearily cracked a window, and threw a blanket atop my sleepy bear. I showered and did our laundry. 

Then, I made us a nice fatty breakfast. Bacon sprinked in brown sugar and maple syrup. Buttermilk pancakes. Some toast. And, just for Elijah, eggs. Personally, I hated eggs. The texture was insufferable at best.