I wake up at about 7:30 sitting upright in a plush chair. Through the window, a small sliver of sun, lay across my arm, generating enough heat for me to sweat and have the morning chills at the same time. I remember a few hours ago when I sat in this chair, imagining myself in my own bed. A wave of depression hit when I realize that there was no physical way I could get home. My soft pillow and the smell of my sheets are going to be replaced by cigarette smoke and an Italian guy incessantly talking in the kitchen. I hate myself for a second but luckily my mind can’t concentrate on much right now. The next few hours I spend sleeping and awake, but at the same time.

Nausea subsides and my nasal passages feel hollowed out from last night’s indulgences. In the morning, the loft apartment is finally quiet and I wonder where the Italian went. I know there were a few good looking girls here last night. I wonder if they left together.

Walking through the apartment as if I had just gotten there, I cannot locate the host, nor would I know who it was if I saw them. I feel bad for crashing, so I gather some beer bottles into a carton to bring downstairs. A guy walks to the bathroom as I head for the door. We awkwardly acknowledge each others presence while desperately trying to bury our individual shame.

“Hey man, great meeting you,” he says through a groggy scratch on the head, “What was your name again?”

“Friedlander,” I say as I walk out.

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