soap and water
this sucks. i don't even know you and i'm scrubbing your vomit out of my living room rug. that's what sucks, that i'll probably never get to.
you have me scared shitless and sweaty, sitting in a parked car, screaming my lungs out and head smooth off. i wake up the next day with red spots all around the eyes. i google it. i guess my stupid blood vessels exploded. they decorate my face for the next week, galaxies of tiny shiners.
only someone really special could make that happen, so i let you stay over again. i let you cook me dinner while you drink yourself silly. i let you throw up in every bowl-shaped thing in my apartment. you end up staying so long that i run out of bowl-shaped things, so i make my hands bowl-shaped. at night i start waking up and looming in the doorway, worried you'll throw up into your bowl-shaped mouth. i don't want to find you on my couch in the morning, overflowing and cold like porcelain.
when you apologize now i just shrug and change the subject. once you've cradled someone's puke in your hands, like some kind of reverse midwife, nothing after should feel awkward in comparison. but i somehow manage to make it so. sometimes i get down on my hands and knees and crawl around looking for blotches in my carpet, still trying to get to know you. but i scrubbed it way too good.