I woke up to the feeling of hard tile under my face, my body laid awkwardly around the toilet. The sweater I’d borrowed from James was draped over my bare shoulders and the shorts twisted around my body. I opened my eyes slightly then, experiencing a sharp pain strike inside my head, slammed them shut again, groaning in agony. I tried to recall my last memory of the night before but my mind was far too foggy to comprehend anything but the vile taste in my mouth. Unwilling to open my eyes i moved my hands across the floor, hoping to find a glass of water, instead my hand fell on fabric. A warmth radiating from the solid object.
“You’re awake,” I heard him say, his voice low and thick with sleep. Alarmed, my eyes sprung open and I was once again greeted by a sharp pain. James sat next to the toilet with his back against the wall and his legs spread out in front of him. His hair was tousled from sleep and little purple circles and developed under his eyes.
"Unfortunately," I groaned and buried my head in my hands. Hangovers were in no way foreign to me but that didn't make the pain anymore bearable. "Why are we in the bathroom?" I asked, careful not to move my head.
"You fell asleep after puking for an hour," he said flatly.
"Shit, really?" I turned slowly towards him and opened one eye just enough so I could see him.
"Yeah, we were watching Sports Centre and you ran into the bathroom so I came in after you and we haven't left since," he ran his hands through his hair and yawned.
"So what about the sweatshirt that I'm not wearing?"
"You insisted it would be unladylike to puke on my clothes, so you took it off," he chuckled.
"Oh good, I was worried I wouldn't be ladylike while vomiting in the bathroom of a man I hardly know," I groaned and slowly sat up, careful to cover myself with the sweatshirt.
"Gotta respect a ladylike drunk," he teased and stood up, stretching before leaving the bathroom.
"I'm sorry about last night, I didn't mean to impose," I called to him and pulled the sweatshirt over my head.
"Don't worry about it," he came back holding a glass of water. "I didn't have anything planned."
I drank the water quickly and studied his face. He looked tired, but his eyes were still alert and bright blue. A thin layer of stubble had appeared along his jaw and for some reason I wanted to run my hands along it, nuzzle my cheek into his. I resisted and instead finished the water and smiled politely.
"So now that you've seen me violently upchuck, can I buy you breakfast?" I asked getting to my feet slowly.
"It wasn't violent so much as gory," he laughed.
"What is violence anyway?" I winked, remembering our conversation before the vomiting.
"Good point," he grinned. "Do you plan on wearing my clothes to this proposed breakfast?"
"Don't all the drunk girls you rescue wear your oversized clothes out the next morning?" I looked at my haggard reflection in the mirror and hoped he'd seen worse.
"They don't usually stay the night," he joked, leaning against the doorframe.
"I feel really special right now," I tried to roll my eyes but was met by more concentrated head pain. I turned on the tap and tried to scrub some of the remnants of the night before off of my face.
"Well I don't have any plans today, so if you wanted to stop by your place and change we could," he suggested.
I took mental stock of my apartment, trying to remember if I'd left anything embarrassing laying around before answering. I couldn't remember anything and to be fair, James had spent the night with me shirtless and puking so embarrassing myself was the least of my worries now.

It took him an alarmingly long time to get ready, he insisted on showering and spending twenty minutes in front of the mirror diddling around with the shaggy mop of hair on his head. When we finally got to my apartment it was clear our breakfast was going to be more of a lunch. I unlocked the door, praying I wouldn't find I'd left the place in total disarray. Fortunately it was presentable, unfortunately I'd dumped my bra drawer on the bed in search the perfect lift and comfort and we were greeted by a pile of undergarments. The thing about my apartment was that it wasn't so much a one bedroom as it had one bedroom, the same bedroom that was also the living room, and the office, and the dining room. It was what Mallory called 'a multi purpose space.' I walked into the apartment ahead of him and pushed the bras off of the bed, kicking them into the closet and closing the door.
"It's kind of small," I apologized, fluffing the pillows on the bed and offering him a place to sit.
"It's nice," he smiled politely, and sat on the edge of the bed.
"It's cheap," I laughed and walked over to the record player, flicking the on button and placing the needle on the fifth track of the B side. The bass line echoed through the speakers and I smiled to myself as I pulled clothes out of the closet; a grey sweatshirt and a pair of dark wash jeans. James stayed on the bed, looking around curiously while I got dressed in the bathroom. I managed to get the rest of the make up off my face and quickly brushed new mascara on. My red curls were wild and matted from a night spent on the floor. I ran my hands under the tap and tried to calm them before running a comb through the mass. Unsuccessful, I pushed my hair back with a hairband and hoped for the best. There was no doubt I looked better the night before, drunk or not.
"What exactly are we listening to?" James asked hesitantly when I emerged from the bathroom.
"Jefferson Airplane," I eyed him suspiciously. I was suspicious of anyone who wasn't familiar with the song that inspired the title of bestselling, albeit fake, diary 'Go Ask Alice.'
"Who?" he crinkled his brow as if trying to pin point a single sound in the song.
"Grace Slick, Marty Balin, later became the less amazing Jefferson Starship..." he stared at me blankly, obviously without any clue what I was talking about.
"Nope," he shrugged.
"Are you serious right now?" I walked back to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
"Dead serious," he laughed. "I have absolutely no idea who any of those people are."
"Really, James?" I came out of the bathroom, brushing my teeth at the same time. "I'm kind of disgusted with you right now," I admitted, toothbrush hanging out of my mouth.
"Sorry," he chuckled. "I don't listen to druggie music."
I rolled my eyes and went back into the bathroom to rinse out my mouth. "It's not druggie music," I returned to my bedroom/living room/parlour. "It's classic psychedelic rock."
"So acid trip music," he teased.
"Just stop," I shook my head exasperated and grabbed my camera and purse from the counter.
"Why are you bringing your camera? Are you secretly paparazzi? Trying to catch me in my element so you can sell the pictures for millions?" he looked at me smirking.
"If pictures of you were worth millions I would have cashed in and moved out of this dump," I scoffed and escorted him out the door.

"So I've been meaning to ask you," James began, sitting across from me in a small booth in the corner of a cozy diner. "How exactly did you end in Pittsburgh?"
I looked up from my menu and tried to think of an appropriate answer. I knew what the truth was, but he didn't need to. "I told you, I got into university here," I answered simply and took a sip of my water. My head was still tender and every part of me was dehydrated.
"Right," he went back to studying his menu. "It's just that you said the other night that moving here saved your life, and I was curious..." he let his voice trail off.
"It's nothing exciting," I smiled stiffly. "I just didn't have much going on in Edmonton." James may have seen me physically exposed, but I wasn't about to start spouting off about my past.
"Okay," he smiled, almost knowingly, and dropping the subject. I let go of the breath I was unintentionally holding and tried to decide what to order.
"So if you don't appreciate psychedelic rock, what do you listen to?" I asked, shifting the focus of our conversation.
"Mostly country," he shrugged. "Some rock. Kind of depends on the day."
"Country?" I smirked, impressed. I'd expected him to say gangster rap or radio played hip-hop. Country I could do. It wasn't my favourite, but it was tolerable.
"Yeah," he chuckled. “You really have low expectations of me,” he fluffed his hair with his hand and flashed me a toothy lopsided grin.
“I don’t like being disappointed,” I shrugged and focused my eyes on the wall behind him, it was easier than looking at him. It wasn’t that he was bad too look at, quit the contrary, the smooth plains of his face were inviting and I wanted to run my tongue over the solid angle of his jaw. His hair was begging to have my fingers tangled in it and his lips, I could spend days studying his lips. So it was safer if I avoided looking him, lest I lose my self-control and get sucked in by his liquid eyes.

I didn’t see James again for over a month. According to Reilly, my personal source for Penguins related information, they were on a road trip at some point during those weeks. I tried not to give any attention to the aching feeling in my stomach when his name came up in conversation or on the radio. It was a waste of time to pine over him and with a constant stream of assignments from overzealous professors, I didn’t have the time to waste. Leo however did. It was beyond me how he could be in his third year and still have time to sit on my bed distracting me while I studied. We’d gotten into a strange but comforting routine. He’d come over after his shift at the local/organic/fair-trade coffee shop, smelling like burnt coffee -of course- and prattling on about the inspiring homeless man he saw on his way or the game changing idea that came to him while pouring someone’s half calf-extra whip-three pumps of hazelnut coffee. When he’d finished telling me every detail of his day he’d make himself comfortable on the bed and critique whatever piece I had laying around. I’d listen half heartedly, taking nothing he said to mind and nodding along to appease him. After a few hours of mindless chatter and unsuccessful reading we’d fool around, then I’d send him home. I’d reasoned that if Leo didn’t sleep over we were nothing serious, so every night I’d roll my eyes while he whined about leaving the warm bed.
I didn’t see my arrangement with Leo as settling. Not at all, because while he was pretentious and somewhat irritating, he was also interesting and motivating. Whether I was willing to admit it or not, his critiques and knowledge of the art world pushed me to work a little harder. He wasn’t an accomplished artist in the traditional sense, but he had an in that I didn’t, an in that I might eventually need. I was by no means using Leo. Our relationship was completely symbiotic. I got his connections, he got my company, and we both got sex. And it was good, the sex as well as the symbiosis.

The first week in November I noticed a new friend request in the corner of my Facebook homepage. I unsuspectingly clicked, assuming it was a classmate or one of the people I’d been introduced to at the most recent gallery event Leo had dragged me to. My friends list had nearly doubled since moving to Pittsburgh, it wasn’t that I had made many friends, rather I couldn’t decline anyone. I was a Facebook pushover. A sense of relief and excitement washed over me when I read the name, rather than some nom de plume adopted by an ex-suburban artist who emphasizes living in the real world, instead of someone I would end up deleting as soon as the year ended it was James Neal. James Neal wanted to be my cyberspace friend.

Notes

For the record my family doesn't understand why I felt the need to write on Christmas, but by some miracle my block (for this story) has lifted and a gush of words has come pouring out of my fingertips.

I'm sorry I've been so neglectful, but if y'all are reading Stay,Stay,Stay you can see why I'm so preoccupied.
Fortunately I'm really starting to get to know Colbie and I look forward to working with her. (this sounds like a job interview)

Anyway, Happy day of secular and nonsecular joy!
xx-T