The party was admittedly thrown in poor taste. My roommate and I had stocked the fridge with rows of two buck chuck, a few plastic jugs of vodka, a bottle of rum, and an old Dewar’s I knew no one would touch. No one under the age of 35 touches Dewar’s except me. The music looped over itself and maybe, just maybe, there was some Cheap Trick.
I remember things. I do.
I remember the spilled drinks, the dog running under my bed and mauling his small body into a pillow. I recall the two-hour porno that happened to come on around 2am, the boy in the plaid shirt lunging towards my roommate, the skunky smoke spilling out under the doors, the lines being carefully cut on glossy-covered cookbooks. I remember everyone leaving save one. I remember his crawl on my bed, his lips on my mouth, and the sloppy, lusty attack on my neck. I remember waking up next to a mistake; like when parents don’t plan for a child, and they sickly call it a happy mistake.
And the black and blue on my neck? I woke up for a second time and threw myself into the bathtub. I laid out my limbs over the edge of the porcelain and let the water get muddy with soap. Everything was steaming. As the cloudy suds drained out all around me, I lolled my head around and heard a snap. I sprung up to the mirror and pressed my face up close. There was a hicky on my neck. There were fresh cuts on my skin. There was makeup caked under my eyes.
There are no happy mistakes. There are accidents, and there’s beautiful luck. Everything in between is just fucking chance.