shit where i eat.

The weather outside reflects the cloud over her thoughts. The poor vision on the roads, like her inability to see in her mind's eye the actions of Saturday night. It's such a pity, she would have liked to remember what it was like to be with him. She tried as hard as she could to picture in her mind him on top of her, tugging at each other's clothes, pinning one another down. She tried to conjure up the memories of the kisses she had dreamed about before. Nothing. All she could remember was the moments she was beckoning him into her bedroom, and his entrance.
"Hey you," she had said. After that, everything goes black. Her memories start up again a few hours later, where she is crying about something else with two other friends on her couch. But the time spent with him on her bed is lost forever. All that remains in her mind from their tryst is a split second of dominance. He's on top. She has one arm above her head, the other below his belt. She'd trade all the tequila in the world to get the memory of this one-time pleasure back.
It was especially upsetting that her memories were gone, because so was he. They had talked, and he was uninterested in making this a recurring event. So her old memories were lost, and there was no chance for new ones. Now, lost in the fog of her mind, she continued to search. She pictured his face, she pictured her bedroom. She could see him standing in the doorway, walking towards her. What happened after that? Did they talk for a bit, or get straight to her obvious intentions? Was she any good? Too drunk to function, but still amazing in the sack? She sincerely doubted it. Damn.
Later that night, she told a good friend the details of what had happened, after he had fled from her bedroom, leaving her topless, confused, and drunkenly hurt. Although her close friend told her the next day what she had said that night, she still couldn't conjure the memories. The bite mark he left could have been like a string tied around a finger, a sign to remind her of what happened. But it couldn't do its job. It remained on her body as useless as her feelings for him. The feelings that made her wish she had a second chance with him and a clear head. She would never be clear on what happened that night, what events came to pass or if he did. She would live confused until she accepted it and let go of the importance of these memories. Now all she needed was time, and a tall, cold glass of water.