That One Girl

I woke up to the smell of coffee, and I knew there was someone else in the house. The pillow beside me was crushed and matted with use, the sheets tangled. Oh shit, I thought. I sat up in bed; there was a pile of clothes on the floor either side - mine, on my side, and a stranger's, a female stranger's, on the other. I clamped my eyes shut and dug the heels of my palms into them. What the fuck. Again?

I swung my legs out of bed and opened the drawer of my bedside table. There was still an unopened box of condoms in it. Unopened. Shit, again. I stood and groaned; my head throbbed, my mouth tasted like a garbage dump had puked diarrhea into it. The smell of coffee coming from the kitchen was making my stomach roll over.

Stepping into a pair of sweats, I went into the bathroom and surveyed myself. No black eyes, no split lips. Just an all-American fuck machine. Shit, again. Who was that making coffee? Who's clothes were those? I left the bathroom after a thorough tooth-brushing and bent over the pile of women's clothes. 

The panties were pink, the bra was pink, the jeans were dark blue, the top was peach. There as no purse; she probably took it with her into the kitchen. No overprotective mother had stitched this girl's name into her panties. I had nothing. No recollection of this person. Face the music, I told myself.

Opening the bedroom door, I went down the hall to the kitchen. She stood with her back to me, wearing only an old pair of my boxers she must have found in a drawer. Sure enough, her purse was on the counter; next to it was her phone. She didn't hear me come in, so I stood watching her. She was drinking from a mug, she was tall and slim, nice legs. Olive skinned. Black hair. Who the fuck was this girl?

I cleared my throat and stepped forward; she turned, smiling. "Good morning," she said, chipper as a flight attendant. Drawing a blank. She was pretty, green eyes, small lips, small tits. "Morning," I managed. Her teeth were very straight, very white. She might be my dental hygienist, I thought.

"How you feeling this morning?" she asked.

"Bit of a headache," I answered. She laughed. 

"I'm not surprised. You really put it away last night," she patted my arm. "Not that it affected your performance any. Wow, is all I can say. That's what I texted my friend when I got up, is that tacky or what?"

I granted it was, but didn't elaborate much. I accepted a cup of coffee from her, her fingers sliding along mine as she passed the mug. She glanced up at microwave clock.

"Shit," she barked. "I've got to get going. I'm showing a house this morning."

"You're a real estate agent?" I ventured. She looked at me puzzled and laughed. 

"You really did get shitfaced, didn't you? We talked about real estate for an hour last night."

This was news to me, as I know nothing about real estate, but I am a good faker, especially if there is some ass to be had out of it. But really, I had no memory of this woman, or last night. The idea that I bullshitted about real estate with her, while drunk, for an hour, was utterly bizarre.

She downed her mug, raced back to the bedroom - with her purse and phone - and I heard water running. She emerged ten minutes later in the clothes that had been piled on the floor. 

"That was an amazing night. Just what I needed," she cooed, coming close for a kiss. I gave her one; no memories jogged.

"We should do it again then," I ventured. She was hot, certainly, and I had apparently made a good impression.

She lit up like an all-night pharmacy sign. "Yes! I was hoping you'd say that!" She pulled her phone from her back pocket. 

"What's your number?" I told her.

Then she smiled like she'd just farted in church and gave me a little nervous giggle. 

"Um. What was your name again?" she asked.