Evidence of a Good Time

One of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

Syrupy tears leaked down my face in slow motion, my silent laugh sucked the air from the room. I had become part of the Persian rug I slinked around on, just another swirling intricate thread in the woven fabric, deep reds and blues. 

I was supposed to be somewhere but I couldn’t remember where and I didn’t care. Why care when you don’t exist?

I laughed again, that hollow laugh, and I heard an echo ring through my skull. 

Then another, but the sound was coming from elsewhere, somewhere outside myself. 

Something was trying to get my attention. 

It took a herculean amount of effort to pull my body back into its body shape and sit it upright. The beeping, the ringing, it just might be Pablo Coca-Cola at the door with more. One could only hope.

The powder had been brown. We wondered why as we snorted line after line, trying to figure out what it was. Not coca. Maybe cola, whatever that meant. But we were in Paris, my french was iffy at best and Pablo Coca Cola was shifty in the kind of way I j…