These things always end up being love stories of a sort. I am, I guess, a closet romantic.
Cooper tripped into my apartment as soon as I opened the door. I couldn't stop laughing long enough to work the key out of the lock, so he had to crawl back and help me.
"I am so shitfaced," I confessed, feeling the world turn a little.
"Me too," Cooper sang, stumbling backward to let me shut the door behind us. He took a big breath and sang even louder, "Me tooooo, I am shitfaced!"
"Shut up; my fucking neighbors!" I hushed him. I was going to need to throw up again soon.
"I'll fuck your neighbors," Cooper snickered. My friend wandered to the fridge, poking through the old takeout containers before finding a couple bottles of Gatorade. He tossed one at me and then cracked his open. "It's got electrolytes," he said his best Idiocracy voice.
That reminded me that I still had puke on my shirt. "I gotta shower," I declared, dropping all the shit in my hands so I could pull my coat off. The floor tilted like a ship deck, but I made it all the way to the bathroom without falling over. No use in taking all my clothes off since they needed to be washed, too. The water pounding on my skull felt so good after the club. I was getting too old for all the smoke and fog machines and strobe lights. Ah, fuck, I was going to be that creepy old guy in the club. If Jennifer hadn't gotten a job in Seattle, we could have been the creepy old couple in the club. But no.
"Marshall! Marsh! What are you doing?" Cooper barged into the bathroom without knocking.
"Showering, dumbass."
"With all your clothes on?"
