The Meatfields: Chapter Four: Vignette No. 2

Vignette Number Two
It was late, but that didn't mean anything. If you ever take a nap in between noon and actual night-time and wake up after the sun goes down, it always feels like the next day- like you've slept through something important. Even if it was only half an hour. And of course living on college row meant for a great deal of calamity all hours of the night. Could've been seven in the a.m. or seven in the p.m. It was all the same on the weekends.
Sometimes waking up is nice, sometimes it isn't. This time it wasn't. It was disoriented wake up time and I had no idea what the hell was going on. Anyone I had ever slept or napped with tended to hate the disoriented just-woke-up me, usually because they had to bear the brunt of my meanness until I could figure out where the hell I was. It didn't help that I had fallen asleep immediately after returning home from classes and woke up after dark.
I went downstairs to get a glass of water- sometimes you just know exactly what you want, even if you are disoriented- it's like your body tells you magically exactly what it needs, and you see what it is in your head. In this case, it was the aforementioned glass of water. I imagined this is what a pregnant woman felt like when she knew she needed out-of-season watermelons from mexico. Her body needs the nutrients or something.
Upon arriving downstairs I was pleased to see that Alison had brought home a new boy to play with, and they were "watching a movie" on the couch. I don't know if I chortled or laughed with a strong tinge of disgust or shook my head or what but somehow I know that my disdain was made obvious, and it wasn't just because of my just-woke-upedness- I really hated her, and him- by default.
She was the kind of girl who gets her hair cut all short and choppy at the fancy hair place because you did only she spends a million dollars to do so and styles it just right every fifteen minutes then tells friends you did it together. I threw up in my mouth a little bit.
She shot knives through her squinty eyes at me and I smiled.
"Hello." I said. And gave a little wave. I felt drunk but wasn't.
I couldn't figure out why she was so pissed until I realized that I wasn't wearing pants.
Why is it that the fridge light of all lights tends to be the most piercing light of all? Opening that portal is like getting your eyes dilated and then looking through a high-powered telescope at the sun. It's painful. But it was worth it for some juice. Which I poured into a formerly used jar that we use as a cup and drank with the lights off, letting my eyes heal. Through the open doorway I could see the blue of the television screen illuminating the face of Alison and her date as they sat and nodded in affirmation of the supremacy of television.
Why didn't I get a glass of water?
Back upstairs I killed the lights again and sat on my bed looking out the open window to the street below. An endless dribble of people showed up at the edges of the circles of light that the streetlights threw on the ground, walking this way and that, to this bar or party or that, looking for a good time. It wasn't that late, but it felt like it. I didn't really think about anything, and then went to bed.