She rolls over in the bed and falls onto her carpet with a heavy thud, cracking her head off her bedside table.
‘Oh, fucking hell,’ she groans, rubbing her hair aggressively to try to ease the stinging pain. She props herself up against her bed and leans her head back on the mattress, her brain spinning inside her skull like a carousel. She immediately regrets drinking as much as she did last night. She crawls across her room and out to the stairs where she sits. Like a child, she bobs down the stairs on her bum, the bumping not helping her head but brightening her mood.
When she reaches an arm up to hold the banister to pull herself up, she gets a strong whiff of old sweat and stale alcohol. As she walks to the kitchen, she stubs her big toe on one of her abandoned heels in the doorway. She curses again and lifts up her leg, squeezing her toe in between both of her hands. She picks her shoes up and, devastatingly, the heels remain on the floor while the rest of the shoes break away in her hand. She immediately regrets wearing them out last night.
Beside her broken heels lies a pair of battered white runners that are most definitely not hers. She frowns and races through her select few memories of the night before to try to figure out why a strange person’s shoes are in her house. The doorbell trills loudly, piercing her ears and sending shockwaves through her skull. She winces and hobbles to the door, pulling it open without much thought. Her very attractive neighbour stands opposite her, looking bright and healthy. She shrinks back from the shining sun that reflects off his ultra-white t-shirt and hides as much of herself behind her door as she can. She wants the ground to swallow her up. Of all days to call in, he picks the day she wakes up feeling and looking like hell.
‘Hey,’ he says, his cheeks reddening slightly.
‘Hi?’ she replies, laughing awkwardly.
‘Uh, I’m just wondering if I could get my shoes back?’ he asks and she stares at him, clueless until her dehydrated brain catches up. The runners in her kitchen are his. Her eyes widen. She immediately regrets going out last night.
‘Why are your shoes in my house? Did we?’ She can’t bring herself to say it. Why would her brain erase that memory?
‘No, no we didn’t. We bumped into each other on the way home and I let you borrow my shoes.’
Her shoulders sag in relief. ‘Oh, that was really nice of you, thank you.’
She fetches his shoes from inside. She hands them to him and he flashes another smile at her.
‘See you later,’ he says and leaves. She waves and closes the door, sliding to the floor and covering her face with her hands. Regret. Regret. Regret. She is never going out drinking in high heel shoes again.
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