Tequila Hangover

Welcome to the 6^th floor.

Today's contributors are: Ann

Subject: Tequila Hangover

My bladder wakens me from a drunken snooze around 7:30am. I'm oddly not hungover or even tired at this obscenely early hour on a Sunday. I use the bathroom and step out into the living area, and the overpowering smell of lemons greets me. There is a squished lemon wedge ground into the carpet by a chair leg, and a multitude of discarded rinds in a pile on a plate on the table as well as inside shot glasses and strewn about the counter. There are a bunch of shot glasses on the table and counters too; some are sitting in puddles, and some are upside down. There is a soft drip coming from the kitchen area, as a puddle forming on the counter from a bag of ice that was never returned to the freezer slowly melts and overflows onto the floor. I put the bag in the sink to finish melting and grab the dustpan and broom to sweep up the remains of a broken shot glass. As I walk towards the garbage I find that the floor is sticky, probably from spilled tequila. It being much too early to mop the floor and really clean up, I ignore it and open up the fire escape and step out.

The cool metal against my feet, I cast my gaze down and take in the city at this early hour. I feel the first rays of sun warming my skin, and listen to the sounds of New York waking up. I can see people down the street getting their coffee and breakfast and picking up the morning paper. Some of them walk over to the bus stop, and start reading the paper as they wait for the bus to start the day and continue to their destination on this Sunday morning. Some may be going to work, others may be headed to church. Others are just early risers, out for morning errands, or even just jogging. I relax, leaning against the building and take in the sights for a while longer, losing myself in the bustle below.

I reenter the apartment and am again greeted by the powerful lemon scent. From this angle I can really appraise the wreck of a room; six friends and roommates and two bottles of tequila can do plenty of damage. Besides the squished lemon in the carpet, the broken shot glass and the puddles, there is salt everywhere. I can see it in the couch cushions, all over the table, on the floor and in Scott's hair, who I now realize has been passed out on the couch the whole time. There are glasses of all types discarded around the apartment as they'd been emptied the night before, puddles of sour mix, tequila and melted ice, and lemon rinds thrown all over the place. I vaguely remember Scott and Frank having a lemon-rind fight as the night degenerated, and I expect we'll be finding them around the room for weeks to come; especially at the rate we usually clean. As some of the memories of the night before flood back, so does the grogginess and hungover feeling. I pick up a martini glass off the floor before it can be broken, and head back to bed hoping someone else will clean up before I wake again.