the signs of a historical hangover are all there : the headache , the nausea , that old familiar oh - my - god - i - hate - myself feeling . there’s something else , too — she becomes aware of someone else’s presence slowly , like staggering out of a thick fog . she remembers last night in fragments : most of it is just expectations from a dozen other nights she’s spent before . too many drinks , a couple lazy pick up lines , a nice ass ( that , she remembers ) & the epilogue is usually the same . except this time is different . robin props herself up , eyebrows furrowed at the silhouette against the window . “ you’re still here ” . not a question : a statement , & not even a particularly polite one , at that . not that politeness was ever her thing , anyway . “ why are you still here ? ”
@bohmand / call ( accepting ) .
