MORNING AFTER

Elizabeth had no idea how long had gone by, but when she woke up in what seemed to her just a few seconds, it was already early in the morning. There was a throb in her head, a murderous one. It intensified and pounded faster with each ticking second and was unbearable. Moaning in discomfort, she slowly turned over in the softness of the super comfortable bed in which she lay.

The aching in her skull ebbed and flowed like a cold tide, yet the pain was always there. She understood at once why they called it a hangover, for it felt as if the blackest of clouds were over her head with no intention of clearing until late afternoon.

From the pounding head, vomit taste in her mouth, and dehydrated feeling she figured she must have been drinking heavily last night. Her throat felt like sandpaper. It hurt to move. It was like the flu was only self-inflicted, which meant she'd get no sympathy from anyone. At least the curtains were still closed, she was always averse to bright light when she was hungover. Maybe she could sleep it off. She curled under the duvet and closed her eyes again. She wanted to be nineteen again when she didn't get hangovers, now with each passing year they got worse. She was just twenty-seven for fuck’s sake. How was it this worse?

This must be why so many older folks didn't get drunk anymore, they'd learned the hard way. The taste of vomit in her mouth spelled out to her the fact that she had spent her night bending over at a toilet and puking her guts out.

Grey-colored images flashed through her head like some sort of horror movie, she could still feel the slight careful touch upon her skin, little whispers of sympathy close to her ears, and the warmth of lips that set her body on fire and sent her core throbbing... the memories zoned out and Elizabeth turned over in bed again, curling the duvet the more to shield her body from the cold air that seemed to seep into the thick piece of blanket.

She couldn't clearly remember the happenings of the previous night and couldn’t decipher if the memories were from a movie or if she had experienced it firsthand. All she knew was the fact that her joints ached badly, her mouth tasted like she'd eaten a life tuna fish, and her head was pounding so fast, nothing than that, no other memories.

She turned again, clearly in discomfort. This time, a loud groan escaped her lips accompanied by small moans and gasps. Her eyelid pressed tightly shut, she tried to make out what had happened. Was she run over by a car? Or worse, raped?

Raped?

Her eyes flew wide open as she tried to reach out for a pillow but felt the gentle touch of her breast against her palm, pressing hard at it to be sure of what it was. She confirmed it, it was her bare chest and she was lying naked on a giant bed she had no idea she got on.

“Shit!”

Elizabeth flew up from the bed, gulping in the process and then she realized as the bright morning light spilled into the fancy room, almost blinding her eyes in the process— that the curtains were not closed, her breasts were what she thought to be pillows and she was naked and alone in a fancy bedroom. Her dress and underwear? It was discarded at the foot of the bed.

“What is happening?” She blurted, pretty sure she was soon going to have tears spilling down her face if she had no one to explain the weird circumstances to her. She was not used to being in situations like this. Being on a one-night stand with someone she didn’t even know. She assessed the situation thoroughly. From the room, back to her place, almost as if she would magically recollect what had transpired.

The room was uncomfortably large. It reminded her of a hotel foyer, not just in the space but in the artwork too. She scanned for a personal touch, something that didn't suggest a hired designer chose it. Nothing. The floor was polished concrete, the walls white and she was sure the furniture was from a high-end Scandinavian designer, but the name escaped her for the moment. The room had enough space to be made into an apartment and there would still be some left for dozens of children, though she doubted even one would be welcome. It was a perfect place, but cold in its tranquility.

Soft jazz just audible as background noise, and at the low volume, somehow made it even look more personal. She felt like she slept in the mall. There were no personal photographs like the place was staged for sale.

A whiff of vanilla and coconut filled the air, making her light-headed and almost losing her balance, and at once, she decided she was in a bachelor's room or a hotel room. Confusion struck her as she hopped down from the bed, and staggered due to the pain shooting into her head the moment she jabbed her feet on the extraordinarily clean floor.

“Hello?” She called, in a low sober voice as she reached down to pick up her underwear, sliding them one after the other. “Anyone? Please, come out. You have to explain what happened here.”

Hooking her bra and adjusting the dress she had designed herself, she made to reach out for her heels, right next to the bed, on an expensive-looking bedside stool were two stacks of money, she had no idea how much it was, but looking at it she could tell it would be nothing less twenty thousand dollars. She slowly made her way towards the stool, her heart pounding against her rib cage as she started to put the puzzles together.

Money...

Woke up naked...

What next?

A letter?

And immediately, she spotted the piece of white paper next to the money, her head reeled with pain as she reached out for it and unfolded it slowly. No shit! This is happening! She chanted in her head as she read out the words scribbled upon it. It was exactly what she had thought was in it, a letter to a drunk slut like her. She squinted to see the writing, it was a bit bent and small, like someone writing in cursive; “I had a great time last night. Something came up - had to leave, left some money for you, order room service, and feel free but don't forget to write me your number and your name before you leave. I’d like to see you again.”

Did rich people just casually throw money to cover up guilt and conscience?

Elizabeth was angry, boiling with anger that didn’t help to relieve her of the headache that made her temples throb painfully. She eyed the money, almost greedily. She could use a lot of money at that point in her life, but her pride was making it seem like she was a whore being paid for her sexual services. Throwing her bed-befuddled hair in a bun, she headed out of the bedroom and in the direction of the door leading out, as she twisted the knob and opened it, another white piece slipped out the corner. She picked it up and swiftly read through it. It merely stated; Go back for the money!

Gnawing on her cheeks from the inside, shamefully, Elizabeth doubled back, grabbed the stack of dollar bills, and shoved them into her shoulder bag.