Martha knew she wouldn't remember his name by that afternoon. She was filled with God-knows-how-many shots of Vodka and half of a Caesar salad, with the glitter from her stilettos stuck to the skin of her legs. She hadn't been drunk in years, and she had made sure to make the absolute most of the experience as humanly possible. He was tall. Maybe. He was blonde for sure, with thin lips and thick biceps, and he managed to pick her up (both literally and otherwise) with absolute ease. She had woken up at 5:00 AM wrapped up in soft, and un-recognizable bedsheets, with her clothing nowhere to be seen. Maybe she was still a little drunk, but Martha felt nothing at all. No hangover, and no connection to the man snoring in the big bed that she had already crawled out of. He didn't even stir. Martha wandered around the man's art deco apartment, finding her clothing bit by bit. Eventually, she had everything she could remember bringing, and she was stumbling around the kitchen. Martha left a note saying good-bye, and headed shoeless out into the street. By six, Martha was out of her cab and fumbling with her apartment keys, dropping them and picking them back up over and over again as she made her way down the seventh floor hallway.
