It used to be fun but I’m not myself anymore. This brand of whiskey has two first names, the latter name plural, Cheap and vile. Swig. Shot. Giggle. Hold his gaze. Break it. Sip mixed with coke. Gulp. Chug. Chew the ice. Suppress urge to *****. Is my nose bleeding? No—just runny. Still numb. Too many lines. Euphoria beats sitting home alone wanting to hang myself, but I shouldn’t have done this. He touches me. Laughs. What a narcissist, a drunk ******* narcissist. I want to slap him. Instead I reach for his belt. How are my hands functioning? He helps because I’m struggling. We laugh. We get naked. I stumble on top. There it is. Turn my face away because we don’t kiss. I’m sweating. How long have I been here? His shoulders and head are leaned back, his hips thrusting upward. His slight cringe and increased breathing indicates I’m done. I rise. He smiles. I fake it. Get up and get dressed. My heart is pounding. I should shower. I put on my bra, then dress (where’s my underwear?)