She dances around me like silver beads on a ceiling fan. I sit down and wonder how she can move that fast–try not to vomit.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m trying not to vomit,” I say.
It’s not easy when your crazy. It’s not helping that I’m under my threshold with vodka. I was above my threshold, but I’ve since moved to the floor. She’s not under anything but rockets. Rockets ever attempting to correct their desperate trajectories, spastically over-emphasizing the last over-emphasized burst of direction. Spinning.
“Why are you dancing?” I ask.
“I’m dry-heaving,” she says.
I tell her to stop moving, but she hasn’t moved for twenty minutes. I tell her to go dry-heave somewhere else, before the nozzle of her hooversauphagus grazes the floor of her stinking stomach slush. She expels a gas that ends bubbly. I cannot help it. I think of her phlegm, of our mistake of noodles.
“Oh man,” I say, she says–hers with a question mark.
She answers it by herself with my noodles. Her noodles. Our noodles on the floor. The stink of stomach slush. A warm exhaustion of spreading, cool relief, heaped with us on the dirty carpet.