Nov. 28, 2006, Silverlake, California

By Farah Z. Khalid

I am awake. There is a clock ticking somewhere in the dark room. My first thought is, “What an archaic sound.” Tick tick tick. Am I in the ’50s? No. I know exactly where I am. A cold rush of dread drowns my insides.

Oh yes … last night. I remember a bar, and shots of expensive tequila, followed by not so expensive tequila … then brown bag beer. Random pieces of the night assemble in my head; each embarrassing snippet feels like a blow to my stomach, adding to my anxiety. I remember in the fuzziness of the evening I kept putting my hand on his leg, even though I knew I shouldn’t. He was a business contact after all; I was there for “business.” But things got friendly after a couple shots.

I remember telling him I’m coming back to his place. Then there is a big gap in time. Funny how that happens. Does the brain suddenly decide what the body is doing is too embarrassing and refuse to remember it?

That theory could work only then I wouldn’t have remembered my next memory, which was at his place. We were in his living room. After the niceties of “nice place, you live here alone, blah blah blah,” I started in with my seduction tactics. Somehow in my tequila/beer/martini haze (yes I remember there were martinis, too) I thought it would be really sexy to start slipping off my red boots one at a time while standing in front of him. I badly misjudged my talents for seduction and my equilibrium as I fell straight back onto his hardwood floor, his side table catching my left arm on the way down.

I try to picture the sight, a 5’10” woman toppling over like a drunken red-booted log. I reach over and feel my left arm. Yup, it’s sore. I’m definitely going to have bruises - war wounds that will have to be explained every day for the coming weeks. Better start thinking of an alibi. I wouldn’t be surprised to find bloodstains on this damn Ikea side table tomorrow.

Oh God, tomorrow! He’s going to have to drive me back to my car. I would leave now and walk if I only knew where the hell I was. I know I’m in Silverlake, but that’s all I know. I have to wait for him to wake up and drive me to my car tomorrow. Fifteen minutes together, isolated in a car. This thought paralyzes me.

All of a sudden my breathing seems incredibly loud. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he must hear it. My mouth is dry and I really have to pee but I don’t move. I don’t’ want to wake him. I don’t’ want to endure any awkward conversation. Ask him where the bathroom is, or can I have some water, or where are my clothes even? No, I’d rather suffer dehydration and the frantic need to pee than awkward conversation. I am frozen. I’ll just wait until he wakes up. It can’t be that much longer right?

I can see through a crack out the window that it’s still dark. I have no idea what time it is or what time we went to bed. I start calculating the advantages of Daylight Savings vs. Non Daylight Savings, and technically it could still be dark even if it’s early morning, or are we not in Daylight Savings right now, wait, which one is the one where’s it stays light longer so it’s dark earlier?

Frustrated with my lack of knowledge and this inane conversation in my head I lift my head to see if I can find a clock. I can barely make out the VCR across the room. It reads 4:13. Shit! He’s not going to get up for another three hours. Three hours of thirst, having to pee, and laying still trying not to wake him. All of a sudden anger wells up inside me; if there’s a clock on the VCR, why the hell is there a clock that’s ticking!

I find myself fighting all my bodily reactions at once. My heart pounds increasingly louder in my chest, my breathing feels heavy, and now I have this tiny bit of scratchiness in the back of my throat which is coaxing me to cough! What’s next, stomach rumbles? Yes. It seems my body has turned against me and I’m in this all alone.

I scan the room with my eyes. I notice how eccentrically neat everything is. All the furniture is matching Ikea Beech wood. I imagine him in the store with the Ikea “sushi” menu in one hand and the miniature pencil in the other, meticulously marking down the aisle and row number of each desired item. This thought almost makes me laugh out loud. The excitement and ridiculousness with which he must have lugged those boxes home, ready for an assembling marathon.

I look over at the VCR clock again: 4:27. Not even 15 minutes have passed! I close my eyes, resigned to attempt sleep. I linger in a half-sleep/half-wake state for what seems like an eternity. My mind and body are exhausted, but my thoughts and heart are still racing. All I can think about is my own bed. Just get through this and soon I’ll be in my own bed.

Why, why did I leave my car at the bar? Yes, I was too drunk to drive, but now I’m a prisoner - a prisoner of tequila, the need to urinate, and bad Ikea furniture. I laugh to myself a little; he shifts his position. I catch my breath and hold it, terrified I might have woken him.

I slowly let go of my breath, which comes out in jolts corresponding with the massive pounding of my heart. Then a thought occurs to me, and I’m more certain of it than anything: He’s probably awake too, playing the same game I am. Neither of us wants to talk to each other or deal with each other so we’re both just waiting it out, waiting out the darkness for that first crack of light, for a decent enough hour to pretend we are rising from a restful night of sleep.

I look at the clock again: 4:35. How is it that time is moving more slowly? Infuriated, I shut my eyes and tell myself I cannot open them again, that I cannot look at the clock again, I must fall asleep if I am to get through this.

These are the last thoughts I remember before waking. I open my eyes. The room is starting to fill with a stark white light. The kind of light that only seems to appear on mornings like these, a cold and harsh light. I immediately look at the clock: 6:37. Yes! I made it through, less than half an hour and this will all be over.

My throat is now so incredibly parched it’s physically painful. Surprisingly, my need to pee has disappeared. Perhaps my bladder went into survival mode, shutting itself down to accommodate my circumstance. Thank you, bladder. I am happy at least one part of my body is beginning to side with me.

Ok, only 30 minutes or so, I can do that standing on my head. I start to think about my bed again, and home, and how the first thing I’m going to do is drink a giant glass of water, pee in my bathroom with my door open, and revel in the privacy and comfort of my own home.

With that thought his alarm clock goes off. The sound immediately makes me close my eyes like some Pavlovian reaction. I pretend not to hear it for a while; after all, if I was really sleeping, I’d be a heavy sleeper and it would take me some time to wake. I feel him stir. He slams his hand on the snooze button and then immediately turns the alarm clock off. Aha! I was right: If he was really asleep this whole time, he would have just hit snooze like a normal person and tried to get a few more minutes of sleep.

It’s time for me to do something, so I play my part. I slowly stir in bed and turn to him. I let out a lazy “Mornin” with a satisfied type of whispery purr. No need to concede to reality now, lets just keep the charade going.

“How’d you sleep?” I ask him.

“I passed out. You?” he asks.

“So good, your bed is super comfortable.”

Lies. We both know we were awake the whole night, we both know we were miserable, and we both know we are going to just keep this charade up and try to get away from each other as soon as possible.

He climbs out of bed and heads into the bathroom. As soon as he shuts the door and the shower water turns on, I jump out of bed to get an idea of where my clothes are. I don’t grab them yet, I just want to make sure I know where every item is so I’m not scrambling for them later in front of him. Who wants to look for her bra and panties with an audience? I lay back in his bed, waiting for him to come out so I can start getting ready. I’ve planned out how all of this will occur.

I figured I would look too eager to leave if I was already dressed by the time he came out of the shower. No, it’s a much better scenario if he comes out of the shower, starts to get his clothes, then I lazily climb out of bed, picking up my pre-mapped items of clothing and put them on casually. Its much more realistic.

I hear the squeak of the shower knob. The water turns off. Again, like a sound cue, I close my eyes, ready to play into the whole scene. God, I should have been an actress, I’m really good at this, I think to myself.

As planned, he comes out of the shower in his towel and starts rummaging through his closet. I take that as my cue and slowly rise like they do in the movies. I gather my clothes and, to add a feeling of spontaneity, I say, “I think my pants are in the living room.” I let out a little giggle and tiptoe into the living room. Of course my pants are right where I saw them 10 minutes earlier, but at least now I can get dressed in a separate room and wait for him.

I notice that his couch is askew. I bet I did that when I fell. I almost go to move it back but then I wonder, what if it’s some kind of new postmodern feng shui thing? Maybe I didn’t do it, maybe he just likes his furniture at odd angles. Who the hell knows, this is Silverlake after all, hipsters are into anything different, unnecessary ticking clocks and all. I decide not to touch it. Instead I sit on it, pick up a magazine, and pretend to read while he finishes getting ready.

He finally comes out. I can’t help but ask him for water. I know this will extend our time together, but I’m dying! He pulls out a giant plastic 7-11 big gulp type cup and fills it with water and hands it to me. All that time in Ikea and he couldn’t hit up the Marketplace for some real glasses?

I get ready to relish the liquid on my tongue and throat. I take a sip. It goes down the wrong way. I start choking on it. All I want more than anything in this world is to quench my thirst, but instead I’m choking on the water. Damn throat! Why can’t you behave like my bladder? I try hard to hide the cough, to hold it in, which makes my eyes water. God what else could happen, just get me out of here.

I thank him for the water and we exit his building. He opens the car door and lets me in first. Well, at least he’s a gentleman. The bright white light of the day almost forces me cower like a vampire. Why is it that mornings-after are always so God damn bright? No other regular morning where I go to bed innocently alone and wake up early is the light this harsh or scrutinizing. It’s as if God has disapproved of my licentious behavior and now wants to unforgivingly spotlight me and my sins.

We hit morning Silverlake traffic, not much but just enough to force me to have to speak to him. It’s time for horrible small talk.

“Wow, is it always this busy in the morning?” I feign interest in the traffic congestion of particular intersections. “Yeah, this is about as bad as it gets in this area,” he says.

The small talk continues precariously. The bar is seeming a lot further than I remember it being last night. Did I fucking park in Kansas? Get me out of this car!

I’m forced to revert to my emergency reserve small talk of, “It’s really nice out today.” That line is reserved for the last of the absolute last of the uncomfortable moments, and this is it.

I suddenly have a terrifying thought. I wonder if my car is even where I left it? I hadn’t planned on being out all night, maybe it’s been towed. Maybe its not there and I’ll have to call the towing company and the door-opening gentleman that he is, he’ll wait for me or worse yet, drive me to where my car is. Shit! I’m never drinking again.

We turn the corner and finally get to the street where I had parked my car, and it’s there. I’ve never been so happy in my life.

He pulls over. It’s time for goodbyes. We subtly search each other’s eyes for some recognition that things we said and did the night prior are to be taken with a grain of salt. I give him a hug and thank him for letting me crash and driving me to my car. I get out of his car and he doesn’t drive away. Oh yes, the gentleman factor I didn’t calculate: He’s going to wait for me to get into my car safely.

I dig through my purse and try every pocket three times. Never, never has it taken me so long to find my keys. I hear them in my purse, I just can’t find them. I just wish he would drive away, but he waits. I place my purse on my car and start pulling shit out. I’ve had it. I’m so done with all of this. I finally find my keys in a pocket I must have checked 17 times. I unlock the car, get in, and wave to him with a smile. He drives off, I let out a giant breath.

I sit in my car for a minute, so happy I want to cry, so excited that the horrific night is over. I cannot believe I had gotten myself into that situation. Never again am I drinking. Never again am I getting myself into that type of situation. And never again will I be able to look at Ikea furniture the same.

Farah Z. Khalid is a Los Angeles based director and editor. Her other work can be seen at www.farahx.com.