Of course, now my face is going viral, so people might recognize me from that, but at least they don't know my real name. They shouldn’t connect this to my account on Instagram or anything like that.
The door creaks open and Trent stumbles out, his blonde hair matted in some areas and standing straight up in others. He's scrawny, yet doughy, all at the same time. I can see this because he's only wearing his underwear.
I can't believe I was ever attracted to him.
Eww.
If it wasn't the middle of the night, I'd be hightailing it home. As it is, I'll be on the phone with the airline first thing in the morning to change my flight.
"Hey, babe. Sorry about that. I was feeling an epic rager, and I didn't know how to process new information."
Epic rager.
We're thirty. At what point do epic ragers become sad?
He staggers to the bed, almost lurching as he grabs my leg. Ithinkhe's trying to come on to me but doesn't quite have the motor function to pull it all together. "Why don't we wait until you're a bit more sober?"
And smell less like bad choices and desperation.
He crawls onto the bed. "Yeah, I'm not sure I can get any wood now anyway." And with that, Trent begins snoring.
I know, despite my tiredness, sleep is not going to come anytime soon for me. So, I do what any rational person would do. I continue reading the comments and messages on ClikClak.
Three hours later, as dawn is threatening the horizon and after I've watched my own video several—dozen—times, I've come to realize three things:
One. Trent does not want me here.
Two. Romance is dead.
Three. Going viral isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Over eight thousand people agree. Or eight thousand people are laughing at my expense. That's more like it.
I can't take it anymore. I pull the blanket off the bed, leaving a mostly naked Trent uncovered, and head up to the roof deck to watch the sunrise. This'd be perfect if I had a steaming hot cup of coffee in my hands on this crisp October morning.
Actually, it'd be perfect if I had a boyfriend who loved me and was happy to see me and wasn't still passed out. As if to kick a woman when she's down, a large mourning dove lands on the railing right next to me. The stupider cousin to the pigeon, this bird doesn't seem to understand the arrangement I have with its feathered relatives up in Boston.
My heart quickens and my hands start to tremble ever so slightly. My mouth goes dry. I flick my hand at it. It doesn't move. I wave the corner of the blanket. Still, it sits there, black eyes staring at me.
"What are you looking at? Shoo. Go away." I swish the blanket like a can-can skirt. The bird takes a step closer to me. Then another. It puffs out its feathers, trying to intimidate me.
It's working.
Oh no. This is it. It's going to jump on me and peck my eyes out. Or poop in my hair. Either way, it would be the end of the world. I hop to my feet, waving my arms in the blanket like my own set of massive wings.
The blasted thing doesn't move, except to bob its head.
Then, it rears up, spreading its wings. This is it. It's about to attack. If I don't defend myself, it's going to kill me.
"Go away. Get. Get. GET." I'm yelling now. I'm sure, if asked at a later time to analyze this situation, I might say that my reaction was intensified by my lack of sleep and extreme stress. However, at this moment, I don't have the clarity to think that. Instead, I start shrieking like a banshee, screaming that this bird is trying to kill me.
For the record, when you shout from a rooftop, "Help, he's trying to kill me. Help. Help me please," it's bound to get a police response.
Four cop cars pull up, seemingly out of nowhere.
And it's not like anyone believes that I felt threatened by a mourning dove. Oh no, they look at Trent, who has stumbled out to the deck, still in only his skivvies. It takes the police almost two hours of talking to us, both together and separately, to leave us be, finally convinced that there was no domestic incident.
Trent glares at me.
