The snow falls, heavy and wet, onto the cold hard pavement outside my apartment window. It’s a friendly reminder of the time of year. Or an unfriendly one, I think to myself as I walk away from the window in my dark apartment. Because while it will be fine for now, the ground is cold enough that the snow will stick, and once the sun comes back out that nice, calm snow will be blindingly bright. Best I recover from my New Year’s hangover before that happens. I walk a slow, staggering walk, through my darkened doorways to my kitchen. Plain eggs, a quart of water, and a cup of coffee. I don’t want to deal with my fridge light yet, don’t trust it. So I start out small. I open my cabinets and pull out the grounds. Measuring out a few scoops into a filter, I place it in the top of my coffee maker. I take the pot from the coffee maker and fill it with water from the sink, dumping the water into the reservoir. Then, replacing the pot, I press brew. A small red bar lights up, a manageable amount of light, and the coffee maker starts to make its normal, complaining noise as it heats the water. I grab a glass out of a cabinet, leaving it open for later, and fill the cup with water, to start getting through that quart.
As I sit on my kitchen counter in the dark, gulping down a glass of water, I try to remember why my head hurts so much. The complex’s new years party. Watching a bunch of theoretically reputable people getting drunk off their minds on the TV. Enjoying Carla’s rum punch. That explains it. She makes that punch strong and sweet. Far too drinkable not to be actively paying attention to how much I’m drinking. Finishing off the first glass, I refill the glass. One down, three to go.
After a couple of gulps of water, the coffee machine beeps at me. Going back to the open cabinet, I pull out a mug. I place the mug onto the counter. Moving my water glass into my off-hand, I take the coffee pot from the machine and pour it into the mug, then replace the pot. Picking the mug of coffee up with my left hand, I head back into my apartment’s main room to relax as I finish them both.
I sit down on my couch, alternating between sipping my coffee and my water. I can start doing things after I’ve recovered, but being a functional human being takes precedence. Then, as though to punish me for such terribly logical thought, my phone begins to buzz. Rattling loudly against the wood of the coffee table. Echoing around my ears and pounding against my temples. I take an extra second as I look down, choosing between my coffee and my water. I need to give one up. The water is more important for finishing off the hangover. But the coffee is key to making me wake up. After that moment, it wasn’t really a choice. Setting the water glass down, I rush over and unlock my phone. It’s Livvy, a friend of mine who also happens to be a bartender at one of my favorite pubs in the area. “Heyyo?” I say, “What’s wrong?”
Livvy laughs. She’s clearly functional right now. Probably due to her ‘being a responsible adult’. “Nothing, really. Mostly I wanted to torture you,” she says.
“Ha ha,” I say coldly, “How was your night?”
On the other end of the phone, Livvy sighs. “Not as fun as yours, probably. Some ay-holes got offended when I didn’t accept their drinks.”
“Want me to help you handle it?” I ask.
“Today? You sure you could manage?” she jokes, giving a little chuckle to show me that she’s not being serious.
I chuckle right back. “I probably shouldn’t, but for you…” I reply, equally jokingly. I take another swig of my coffee.
“All seriousness, I took care of it. I’ll let you know if anyone needs any extra handling,” she informs me. Because she knows that, as much as it was a joke, if she needed it, I would’ve stumbled my butt out there and done something.
“‘Kay. Anything else you want to talk about, or can I get back to fixing this hangover?” I ask.
She pauses for a moment. “Have you worked up the courage to open your fridge yet?” she asks.
I sigh. “That’s an after coffee activity,” I answer her honestly.
“Then I can keep bothering you until you’re done with that mug,” she replies smugly. I can’t see her smug little grin, but I know it’s there.
“Just for that, once I’ve slain this hangover, I’m going to make my way over there and bother you.”
“Really? In this weather? They’re not going to be clearing the roads that quick.”
I give my own little smirk and joke, “Oh really? Clearly you’ve forgotten how long it takes for me to finish off a hangover.”
That causes Livvy to laugh, a pleasant, roaring laugh that echoes around almost any room she’s in. “Fair point,” she says through her guffaws, “You got me there.”
I act shocked, letting out a slight gasp. “Livinia? Are you admitting that you can be…wrong?”
“Just for that, next time you’re at the bar you aren’t getting my shift drinks,” she says.
“For what?” I ask, knowing full well the answer. Livvy does not like her name. It’s why I only use it when making bad jokes and poking fun.
She lets out a sigh, then moves on. “Implying I’m anything less than perfect,” she jokes.
“Fine,” I say. Then, with a smirk, I add, “We both know you probably won’t remember this threat in a week anyways.” I take another drink.
Livvy thinks about it for a moment, then replies. “Probably not, but you never know. Especially if Hector is there, too, some part of my subconscious might just give them to him instead.”
I chuckle, some of the coffee spilling out onto my pajamas. “Maybe,” I admit as well, before adding “But we both know that subconscious action won’t be because of this convo.”
“You never know what goes into subconscious decision-making,” she counters.
I shake my head. “Sometimes, we do,” I say, “When one’s nethers are involved in the situation.”
“Shut up,” she quickly spits back.
I gasp. “You said shut up?” I say with a grin, “I win!”
“I love you, and I hope you die,” she informs me.
Still grinning, I reply, “Ohm-guh. I was thinking the exact same thing when I saw your name show up on my phone screen earlier.”
She laughs as I finish off my coffee. “Well, I suppose you would,” she says, “But on the other hand, I’m great and you’re, well…” she trails off.
“Also awesome,” I finish her sentence for her as I put down the mug and pick up my glass of water, though probably not with the end of the sentence she intended.
Livvy chuckles. “Exactly what I was thinking,” she says. “So, besides getting far too drunk on Carla’s rum, how was your party?”
I take a drink of water. “Honestly,” I answer after I swallow, “I barely remember a dang thing. I think Quincy and Helen both tried to flirt with me within earshot of each other, but not in a way that makes me think they knew the other was doing it, but that only sticks in my memory because it felt weird.”
“Yeah, that’ll happen,” Livvy replies, “You’re just not used to it, because normally you go to parties with me, so you’re not the hottest person in the room.”
“I haven’t thanked you enough for relieving me of that burden,” I joke.
Livvy jokes right back, “I don’t need thanks, I do it for the love of the game.” Then, after hearing me swallow yet another gulp of water, she adds, “How big is this cup of coffee? Are you just drinking straight from the pot again?”
I sigh. “No, I haven’t done that since, well, in almost a year now,” I reply, “Nah, I switched over to my water glass.”
“Aww, you just wanted to keep talking to me,” she mocks.
I laugh. “I was just worried what might happen if I hung up the phone.”
Livvy lets out a “Psh,” before replying, “It’s far too early for me to do anything drastic. Heck, I’m only awake because you texted me last night about how delicious Carla’s punch was and I knew I had to set an alarm to bug you.”
“Why do I ever text you?” I mutter loudly enough that she can hear over the phone. I take another gulp of water.
Livvy answers, “I repeat, because I’m great. And also you get drunk around me so often, I think you just instinctively try to include me whenever you drink too much.”
I groan. “I should just delete your contact off my phone.”
“Then how would you know where the best parties are?” she counters.
I let out a strange noise, somewhere between my usual groans and sighs, before I say, “Well, it’s time for me to face down the vile refrigerator light. Wish me luck.”
“Don’t get lost on your way to the food,” she says as a joke, “I’m going to go back to bed.” She hangs up as I hear a door creaking. I put the mostly empty glass of water down on the table beside the fully empty mug. Then I make my way back to the kitchen and, bracing myself, I open the fridge.
The bright white light bulb illuminates the entire kitchen. I squint to try to minimize the amount of light coming into my eyes. It doesn’t help too much, but it helps a bit. Pulling out the carton of eggs, I quickly shut the door. Letting my eyes readjust back to the darkness, I place the carton of eggs onto the counter. I pull a bowl out from a cabinet, and grab a fork from a drawer. Then, I break five eggs into the bowl. I break up the eggs with the fork, not really bothering with the whole ‘whisking’ thing, because I don’t need this to taste good. I just need it as a calorie delivery system. I take my big pan off the wall and place it on the stovetop. Closing my eyes, I turn back around and open the refrigerator. Without looking, my hand moves to and across the door’s shelving and finds the partially used stick of butter. Feels like a couple tablespoons left, maybe two and a half. More than I’d normally want to use, but hey, I don’t feel like doing any more than the bare minimum of work here right now. Pulling the remains of the stick out, I close the door before I open my eyes. It’s a full three tablespoons. I suppose these eggs will be incredibly unhealthy. I place the butter onto the pan and turn the stovetop on low, letting the butter melt almost fully before I dump the broken up and slightly mixed together eggs in. Grabbing one of my countertop spatulas, I begin to stir up the eggs and butter in the pan, mixing them together and using the other hand to spin the spice rack around to find the salt. Adding some salt to the eggs, I’m all done with spices. Bland eggs can be eaten quicker than flavorful eggs. And the eggs are just a delivery system for their calories. After several minutes of mindless, repetitive stirring, the eggs look mostly cooked. I turn off the heat and move the pan over one coil, to a cold part of the stovetop. Pulling out a plate from the open cabinet that held the bowl from earlier, I dump the eggs onto it. It’s a little runnier in the center than I’d like, but close enough to cooked for me to eat. I stab a fork into the eggs on the plate. Grabbing my pot of coffee and my plate of eggs, I head back to my couch. I need to get over this hangover, then I can figure out what I need to fix from last night.
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