“My voice cracked!” She exclaimed. “I didn’t even know girl’s voices could crack, and it was when I was singing, Jesus this is a disaster. It will be all over the internet by now. Fuck me.”
“Like actually fuck you? Or just.” I paused, my joke didn’t land, at all. She was fuming. Usually she was a cool customer, nothing ever got under her flawless skin, nothing bothered that brilliant mind of hers. This, as it turns out, was her achilles heel. This seemed to really bother her. She paced her apartment like a caged animal, going over the moment again and again, pounding whiskey from a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 I had bought duty free at Taoyuan airport- and had been saving for a special occasion. Special occasion, the beginnings of a wry smile began to cross my face, but I quickly suppressed it, a smile would be disastrous for me. I knew ass was off the table for that night, or at least I guessed it will be, but I didn’t want to blow future chances too.
She took a pull, grimaced and let out a half roar. “God Fucking Damnit!” She articulated, punching out every sound. I knew telling her to calm down would only pour gas on her flames. “Need anything?” I asked, almost begging for an excuse to run to the convenience store. She paused and glared. I gave my sweetest, helpful look. “You’re nice,” her response laced with barely suppressed anger. “I know I’m a ball of fury at the moment, but this whiskey and your kind ear are helping, but maybe,” she thought, “Maybe something else would help.” She paused and took another pull with her eyes shut tight. They burst open as she screamed out the burn. “Fuck!” She yelled. “God damn it, fuck this so much! “
“Chocolate? How ‘bout I get you some chocolate. Or ice cream, or tater chips? Call your shot, my treat.”
She took a deep breath and hung her head. I got up and gave her a hug. She put her head on my shoulder and the flood gates broke. She poured angry, bitter tears on my shoulder, tears turned quickly to sobs, and she began to go limp in my arms. I guided her weakening body towards the couch. She collapsed in a heap of snot and tears. She grabbed a pillow and held it tight to her chest. I heard a burp and I immediately knew where this was heading. I sprinted to the kitchen and grabbed a trash can, ran back to the couch, sliding in like I was stealing third base,- just in time to have the hand that was holding the trash can covered in whiskey vomit.
Fuck me, I thought, but kept a straight face and said “its ok” on repeat, holding her hair out of the way with my non-vomit covered hand. Years later she would tell me it was the sweetest thing anyone had done for her, a brief kindness in a life of constant demands from others and mountain high expectations placed on her shoulders from all around. For me, though, she was a friend who had a rough day, who had pounded too much Turkey and was puking her brains out. “We’ve all been there,” I told her then, I know she’d have done the same. The smile she gave me that day was worth the vomit covered hand. But that was still in the future, and in the moment, I just really wanted to wash my hand.
