Earthly Ties

One

I’m never drinking again.

I say that every time. Yet here I am, once again, half awake and sprawled across the bed, with my eyes squeezed shut to delay the worst of the hangover.

Past Lucy was so smart, taking my birthday off of work.

The Friday morning faculty meeting is probably long over, and I can’t imagine forcing myself through it.

Except for once, my hangover isn’t that bad.

No dry mouth. No headache. No spins. No sweats or chills.

I just feel…floaty. What a pleasant surprise, considering I drank almost the entire box last night; I should feel like death.

Taking deep breaths, I wait for nausea that never comes, unwilling to open my eyes to the inevitable pain of daylight.

As a birthday present for myself, I splurged on a nicer brand of boxed wine yesterday. Maybe I should have switched from the cheap shit years ago. “Floaty” is a much more pleasant hangover than usual.

On the other hand, I should keep my standards low. Especially with how much more I’ve been drinking since the Pox hit a few years ago. I almost enjoyed it at first; withdrawing from the few distant acquaintances I had was a welcome excuse to isolate myself further.

Things changed last year, when I streamed Cash’s funeral on my laptop, drowning my tears in a mason jar of wine. Alone in my cramped apartment and drunk off my ass, I could only observe his family’s grief via the funeral home’s webcam like a voyeur of death—

I groan, willing myself to get up, unsuccessfully.

Rotting in bed sounds better than facing yet another day.

Still, I’ll end up finishing the red blend for breakfast if I start thinking about Cash this early.

The lack of hangover from the bougie box kind of defeats the purpose of drinking to feel something, if I’m not miserable afterward.

Eyes still closed, I stretch, waiting for the familiar pangs wine always gives me.

Except my body has no aches or stagnant muscles, and the sheets don’t peel from my wine-warmed skin.

The dull, thudding pain pulsing down my neck is missing completely.

Am I even moving? Did this red blend fucking cause sleep paralysis or some shit?

Maybe the bougie box was not the move.

Hesitantly, I open my eyes, just to confirm.

My hand tightens into a fist on the pillowy pink duvet, so sleep paralysis is out.

I am definitely hungover though; my brown skin has a grayish cast that goes beyond ashy, washed out against the blush cotton blanket.

Except the sunlight isn’t stabbing my eyes like it should be.

In fact, I don’t feel anything.

And I don’t have a pink duvet.

“Wait, where the fuck am I?” My voice is quiet, hoarse, almost dull. “What the fuck happened last night?” I roll onto my back to look around for any clue of where I might be.

Whoever lives here really likes pink. In addition to the bedding and matching curtains, a bouquet of fake blush roses sits on the nightstand, and assorted coral decor hangs on the wall.

A lesbian pride flag ties the riot of pastels together.

A peach ombre coffee mug sits next to a laptop on a tiny table, squeezed into the kitchenette.

The studio apartment is a mirror of my own—only significantly cleaner and more decorated—yet somehow even more cramped, with a queen bed instead of a futon like I have.

“Well, guess I know what happened last night!” My mouth twists in a halfhearted smile. But who is she? And how the fuck did I meet her?

Last night, like every night, I’d been home by myself.

I’d ordered pasta with a slice of chocolate cake as a birthday treat, just like when I was a kid.

I didn’t do anything last night but eat my carbs, binge drink the red blend, and cry myself to sleep on the futon, while watching some staged paranormal hunter “reality” show.

Typical birthday. Typical Thursday, for that matter.

While I am no stranger to waking up hungover in unknown apartments, that was more of a pre-plague Lucy activity, when I drank alone (until I wasn’t, anyway) in public instead of at home.

Waking up here is not panic-worthy, but I am very confused.

Spontaneous one-night stands are in my past these days; Pox-related restrictions may be mostly lifted, but the disease is still rampant.

I can’t imagine leaving the house just to get laid, not even blackout drunk and lonely—

The bathroom door opens, and humming to herself, Esther fucking Voigt walks in.

Oh, fuck! Lucy, what the fuck did you do last night?

My gut tightens, and every nerve in my body floods with adrenaline.

My gaze lingers on her thick curves and bare legs, until I have the sense to squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep; panic makes playing dead sound like a mature decision.

Merely being in the presence of the cherubic, overeager adjunct—who I haven’t seen in person in months—is enough to make logic my lowest priority.

No, I need to focus, to salvage this situation somehow. What do I know? What don’t I know? First question: How on Earth did I end up in Dr. Voigt’s apartment? Second question: Why isn’t my colleague wearing pants? Did we actually…? Oh, please tell me we didn’t actually. Oh god, am I wearing pants?

Peeling one eye ever so slightly open, I glance down at myself again.

My long legs are covered by a white linen nightie that can’t be mine, with only my bare feet—the same washed out gray as my hands—visible past the hem.

I do not wear white. Or nighties. If we actually hooked up, why aren’t I naked?

Because if I was going to throw all of my self-control out the window, there’s no way I would rest until we were both completely and utterly sated.

Lending me a nightie would be the last thing on Esther’s mind if we actually—oh no.

This is so much worse.

I must have made a drunken fool of myself. Because I’m hungover, waking up in her bed, in her nightie, and my body does not feel used or bruised or any of the beautiful aches it should have if she had been interested.

Oh, I fucked up so bad. There was a reason I never approached her in real life. Even if she didn’t turn me down, I know better than to fuck someone I’d have to see again! Let alone someone who is in my department! How did I even get her number? Or get here, wherever her place is?

Dressed only in a sky blue button-up and cheeky boy short undies, Esther ignores my silent panic, picking up the ombre mug off the small table on her way to the window.

I’ve never seen her this up close before.

Not in real life, nor in such a state of undress.

That only happens in dreams, and our clothes never lasted this long.

I don’t remember much of last night, but I definitely kissed Dream Esther. Her vanilla Chapstick paired well with the bougie box.

At least, I hope that was a dream.

I frown, struggling to piece together any memories of last night.

Kissing Esther must have been a dream; we were next to the bubble waterfall, lying together on the cloud blanket.

The waterfloat, as Dream Esther calls it, is definitely not real.

I have a vague memory of reaching for her closet door, and the glitter grass swishing around my feet.

I wish I could blame the wine for my overactive imagination, but that’s a recurring dream, even sober. Kissing—and other activities—only happens with Dream Esther. Real Esther and I do not interact, and certainly not the way we do in our dreams.

Sure, we’ve given the barely visible head nod of queer woman solidarity while passing in hallways, or sat a few seats away in the rare in person faculty meetings.

But right now, she is mere feet from me, wearing a button-down shirt and—notably—no pants!

Her stout legs, dark hair dusting her shapely calves, are just as mouth-watering in real life.

My overactive imagination was pretty spot on—even the mole on her right thigh is real, though I can’t imagine how my subconscious guessed that.

Humming to herself, Esther checks her watch while looking out the window. Her shirt rides up on her hips when she sips from the mug, revealing a tantalizing flash of skin at the hem. Sky blue is a very flattering color on her, making her bright blue eyes pop.

Ugh, she’s pretending I’m not here, and I’m still checking her out? This is pathetic, even for me.

Granted, I’m pretending to be asleep, just to avoid the inevitable awkwardness of trying to fumble my way out of this, so I can’t exactly hold it against her. Do I even want to know the embarrassing truth of what happened last night? Should I be grateful I can’t remember her rejecting me?

An impatient sigh escapes her as she checks the time on her phone, as if Esther hadn’t registered the time on her watch mere seconds ago.

Is that my cue that I’ve overstayed my welcome? Was she expecting me to sneak out while she was in the restroom?

Was I even welcome in the first place?

The only logical explanation I can come up with is that I stumbled my way to campus, stole the Philosophy Department personnel records from Gilda’s desk, and drunk texted Esther—or just showed up at her apartment.

If that is the case, that is a new low of desperation; I might as well quit my job now and disappear forever.

Not that there was much opportunity for crossover between our specialties (her feminist philosophy, me the occult and spirituality), but in one night, I have irrevocably destroyed any chance of a professional relationship with the cute, bubbly coworker I met six months ago.

Still pretending to be asleep—like the awkward, avoidant woman I am—I roll over to look around, without Esther knowing I’m awake yet.

I have no idea where my phone is. I don’t even know where my glasses are.

I’m not wearing them—the cat-eye rims are usually visible, yet there’s nothing in the edges of my vision other than a blurry haze.