Short Story #1

The perspiration on his forehead is a hint of weather outside. Even before opening his eyes, he felt his throat soar from last night's inebriation. Like always, he imbibed more than he could, and should. The sun was scorching outside, no clock nearby, but instinctively he knew it was a gauche to start the day so late. From the small window in his room, and whatever the space allowed for the sun, the wooden coffee table and whatever was on top of it were enameled with the light's gold. The room was stifling. He thought, 'all these gold, yet I'm trashed.' He let out a cynical smirk and regretted not having the drapes closed the night before; he could've been put out of misery longer, but to have it inevitably come back that much later. He maneuvered  to reach a glass of water left on the coffee table. Lying on his chest ever since God knows when his body was contorted, as if performing complex yoga position, to drink for his survival. The result wasn't what he had hoped for--lukewarm--yet, he managed to drink to its bottom. He grimaced as the water left a scent of staleness, or whatever you expect from a lukewarm, old glass of water. He flipped to his back with his right forearm on his head and closed his eyes. Recounting yesterday, he remembered bits and parts of the club scene. Only fragmentary after his impressive 5-shot tequila streak. He grabbed fist with his right arm trying effortlessly to erase that memory of shame. It was only to prove that he was once a party animal like any of the genuine animals at the club. He remembered swiping his credit card for unnecessary juice. It was another moment of bravado only to be ripened to shame and regret. Squandered money, assiduously earned regret. Maybe five minutes have passed, he rescinded his mind  from yesterday's oblivious agony.

He got up, took a cold, half-empty orange juice carton out of the refrigerator, and gaited limpingly toward the balcony. It was totally middle of the day, and the shade didn't permit much space for him to stand there. He would've just head back in, but he lit his Marlboro. Uncomfortable as he was, his sandle was molding to his feet, or so he imagined. He thought, 'fuck it' and went back into the house with his cigarette still lit at the corner of his mouth. He left the door wide open.

He checked his pockets for his cell phone. The same jeans from yesterday. This time he said it out loud, "Fuck". Then soon he heard his phone ring. "Moves like Jagger~". The tone he admired, but now hackneyed. He picked it up under the sofa he was sleeping on, "Wssup, Chris".
"Hey bro, finally awake?" said Chris.
"I don't know, am I?"
"Haha, are your lips bruised up from talking all that candy into her ears?" pried Chris.
"No, my throat is soar like a mother," he replied unpretentiously, trying to elicit more truth about his lost memories of yesterday.
"Damn, you were trying yesterday. Well, I'm not surprised. How was the blonde? She was pretty up there with her hotness. Yikes!" said Chris with enthusiam congruent to yesterday's.

"Wha..." and before he could finish, he heard his toilet flush. His heart skipped a beat and in that brief moment scenes of yesterday night flashed at the back of his head. Loud music, dancing, accidental bump to a group next to his, laser lights flashing from bottom of her Jimmy Choo to her face with his eyes following the guiding light. Her skinny legs to bodacious curvatures accentuating lust for the eyes of beholders, tight, blue, one-piece skirt curtained by her silky blonde hair. Her eyes green, not too big, but edgy which her smiles were as visible with her eyes as her thin lips. Quick apologies, bravery triumphant, her group adjoining to his, bathroom break to regather the composure, inviting the girls to the VIP room. Silence is guaranteed in such rooms for sealing the deal for the night; time for mad sugar into their ears and uninterrupted from loud music. However, their room managed to keep up with energy that was vibrant on the floors. Four on four and the chemistry was great. Nonetheless, it was without a doubt that the blonde with green eyes was the trophy.
"Hey, I will have to call you back" he said in his whisper.
"Yo, wait man, tell me about..." Chris was ignored before he could finish.

He took out the cigarette from his mouth and threw it into the kitchen sink and walked towards his bathroom. He leaned on the door to eavesdrop but the door swung open. The blonde was standing giving him the impression that he should be ashamed of himself in a teasing expression with her index finger moving side to side. The thing about her eyes was that it was alluring and entrapping, very charismatic, but his peripheral vision alerted him that she was naked. She swung the door shut. He quickly went back to his bed room and saw her clothes everywhere. He thought, 'Wow, fantastic baby'.

Then he woke. His throat was sore from yesterday night's drinking. He was sweating because of the scorching sun outside. Everything the sun managed to reach had gold tint in the house. He twisted his body around to drink the lukewarm water from his coffee table. 'Man, what a dream. Why not the part of action in the dream?' he thought. Then "Moves like Jagger" rang and he picked up. It was Chris saying, "Hey buddy, how are you feeling?"
No reply.
"Dude, the blonde yesterday was so hot." said Chris.
Then he heard his bathroom flush. Startled by the sound, he said, "I gotta go".
"Wait, do you have..." Chris was ignored.
With slight hope and as vivid as his fresh dream lingered in his head, he approached the bathroom.
He can still remember the blonde's sexy body, her smiles, and her staggering beautiful green eyes. He held his breath and leaned to the bathroom door...

"any toilet papers?" Chris sheepishly asked.