"Mmm...Oh God..." a deep, slurred moan escaped from Mark's throat as the girl he was ramming into writhed beneath him into throes of orgasm. Eyes tightly shut, he came not too long after, crashing down on her, both attempting to regain control of their breathing. After a few moments, he pulled out of her and lay on his back. He ran a hand through his hair. 'I'm...so...tired...' he had never remembered ever being so tired in his life...or being that drunk, either. Soon, his thinking resided as the girl nestled up to him, and they both fell asleep.
The next morning he woke up to the harsh sounds of street cars and sirens. He opened his eyes only to find an unholy light shining right at him. It seemed as if it was magnified by twenty – the sun's way of saying never to drink again.
He shut his eyes quickly and sat up, searching for his glasses, only to be introduced to a pounding pain in his head.
"Uggghhhh..." he moaned, grabbing his head with both of his hands. 'I'm never drinking again...' Unenthusiastically, he went back to groping the bed for his glasses. When he finally felt them, he shoved them back onto his face and looked around. He found himself not in the comfort of his own room in the loft, but some new room, a new place completely.
'What the hell happened last night??' he thought as he got up and was greeted once more by that pounding sensation in his head. He looked around for his clothes. All he could find were his boxers and jeans, and put them on.
As he made his way out of the room and down a short hallway, he looked around, trying to remember something – anything – from the previous night. Nothing.
When he got to the end of the hall, he stopped and looked around, listening for any sign as to whether there was any other life in the apartment or not. When he heard nothing, he decided to take a right turn, and saw a girl sitting at her kitchen table, eyes closed, massaging her temples. She had the most vibrant natural red hair he had ever seen. There was a steaming cup of coffee – black – in front of her, probably an attempt to relieve the symptoms of a bad hangover.
"Hey..." he said tentively from the doorway, not sure who she was. Surprised, she jumped a little, took her hands off her face and focused her eyes on Mark.
"Hey..." she quickly darted her eyes away from Mark and to the table, hands shyly folded in her lap.
There was an awkward and drawn out silence. Mark shifted his weight and looked around the kitchen. It was a mess – papers covered the floor, picture frames knocked over on a counter, and...his shirt? And scarf? And coat, too? In messy piles near her couch. His eyes widened.
"Uhh..." he said, his heart starting to race, his eyes going back to the redhead. "Do you remember last night?" He asked. She shook her head, still not looking at him. "Did we uhh...d-did...did we do anything?" He asked quietly, getting nervous. She looked up at him finally. She slightly shrugged, and quietly said, "I...I think so."
Mark was afraid of that answer. He always told himself and others that he wouldn't be that drunk guy out having sex with all the girls. A little twinge of guilt sprang up inside him.
"Did we...use protection?" he said quietly, a lump forming in his throat.
There was a silence that followed his question. Still standing in the doorway, his eyes were focused on her. The silence seemed to go on forever.
"I..." she said, looking up at him with a pained expression, "I...don't know." she managed to whisper.
He closed his eyes and swallowed, hard. Another answer he was afraid to hear. 'Great.' he thought, bringing his hand up to his head to massage it, as if that would bring back some recollection of the previous night. 'Not only do I get drunk and fuck a girl, but we're not even sure if I wore a fucking condom! For all I know, I could've knocked her up. Or gotten STD's, one of which I hope to God I don't get...'
"What's your name?" her soft voice broke the silence.
"What?" he asked, snapping back to reality.
"What is your name?" she repeated.
"Oh. It's Mark. Mark Cohen." he said, looking at her. She nodded and looked at her coffee.
"I'm Abby, by the way. Abby Parker." she told him after a moment. She gave him an awkward smile, which he returned.
"So...do you want anything? Coffee? Cereal? Eggs?" she started getting up.
"Oh, no, I'm fine, thanks..." he said, massaging his forehead again, stepping out of the doorway. Food didn't seem like it would agree with his stomach, and he wasn't one much for coffee.
"Oh, okay..." she said, still standing.
He went to the couch and noticed the magazines from her coffee table were scattered on the floor.
'Some night.' he thought, picking up his belongings and putting them on. 'Too back I can't remember it...' Once he had his clothes on, and his scarf was in hand, he went to the table where she was watching him.
"Umm...can we trade information, you know, just in case..." he trailed off, assuming she'd think different than him.
"Sure." she answered, and got paper and a pen out. They wrote down their names, addresses, and phone numbers and handed them to each other.
"Thanks." He said, and put the folded piece of paper in the breast pocket of his coat. She merely nodded in response. She walked him silently to the door. When they got there, she opened the door for him. Right before he left, he stopped and looked at her.
"Well, umm..." he thought of what to say. "Thanks?" "See ya?"
"Maybe some other time." he settled on, and forced an awkward smiled.
She forced one back.
"Bye..."
"Bye..." The door closed.
As Mark made his way back to the loft, he let out deep breaths, and kept massaging his now pounding head. There was no way Roger was going to believe any of this.