I Can’t Even Blame this One on Being Drunk

By Claudine D’Angelo-Dotzman

I watched my professor get plastered the other night.  He changed from a respectable, well-mannered academic to a sloppy, foul-mouthed, misogynistic pig somewhere between the vodka martinis and the Jack Daniels shots.  I slept with him anyway. 

I woke to the smell of vomit.  Before I even opened my eyes, I poked around my immediate area with my fingertips to be sure that I hadn’t slept in it.  Having to take a shower tends to ruin a fast getaway.  When I was confident that the smell was coming from his side of the bed, I grabbed the plasticene, Motel 6-grade comforter, wrapped it around my shoulders and slunk into the bathroom.

The overhead light flickered a few times before it revealed a whole new world of mold-covered beige ceramics.  I looked at myself in the mirror and cursed my choice of cheap waterproof mascara that now darkened the circles under my eyes.

I can’t even blame this one on being drunk.

I ran my hand through my recently highlighted hair.  “I’ve gotta get out of here before he wakes up,” I told my reflection.  “There’s no way he’ll remember all this if he never sees me.”  I turned off the light, cracked the bathroom door, and listened.  The regular sounds of a buzzsaw reassured me that he would be missing his first two classes today, at least.

I tiptoed back into the room.  I drew the curtains enough for a line of sunlight to illuminate a track of dusty beige carpet and started searching for my clothes.  My skirt and blouse were in a pile by the door, next to my black patent leather boots.  I retrieved my bra from the lapshade, also dusty beige.  My new red cami was a total loss, as it was under the puddle of my olfactory wake-up call.  Gross!  But my thong was a little more challenging.  It was wedged between his pillow and the padded, beige striped headboard.  He didn’t even stir as I tugged it out.

I am an expert at dressing in the dark in strange places, but I set a personal best that morning.  As I turned to go, I checked my skirt pockets.  “There it is.”  I pulled out my phone and pressed a button before lining up what I thought would be the perfect shot.  Facebook insurance, I thought and clicked the button.  He appeared, sloppy and naked in the palm of my hand.  I ducked out the door before he had the opportunity to react to the flash.

  About the Author:  Claudine D’Angelo-Dotzman

Claudine D’Angelo-Dotzman lives in NJ with her husband and four uniquely creative children.  She is the Director of Operations of a 501(c)(3) community arts program and writes marketing copy for non-profit and educational institutions.  Her poetry translations have been published in Twentieth Century Latin American Poetry: A Bilingual Anthology.  She is working on her first novel in conjunction with her coursework as an MFA candidate in Creative and Professional Writing at Western Connecticut State University.  Claudine can be contacted at Claudine@getGravity.com.