As I enter the bar I watch out of the corner of my eye as you look up from the drink that you've been nursing. My guess is you're drinking tequila again, probably a Tequila Sunrise, as that's your favorite 'adult beverage' to get totally trashed on. Not that I really care, but I allow myself to wonder if you remember anything about the night before, about my helping you out of the restroom where I'd just violated you, in so many disgusting ways that even a professional whore would blush. About my taking you to the taxi and sliding you into the back seat so that you got safely home to your family last night.

 

I walk up behind your bar stool and you look up at my reflection in the mirror. Your eyes are still a bit cloudy, your face still a bit flushed, but it does seem that the tequila in the Sunrise is beginning to sober you up. 'Hair of the dog that bit you,' as they say.

 

Still looking at me in the mirror, you open your mouth to speak, unable to keep the sarcasm from creeping into your voice. "I wasn't sure you were going to call," you say.

 

I pretend to be shocked and hurt by your comment (in truth I don't really give a shit), give you a mock look of surprise followed by my best smile as I take the seat next to you at the bar. "Don't I always do what I say I'm going to do Tessa?" I ask, then motion to the bartender to bring me a gin and tonic and to refill your drink, heavy on the tequila, because I don't want you overly sober tonight.

 

You try to match my charm and return my smile but immediately shut your eyes as the pounding from the headache that started the night before reappears. You remember the sound of your alarm going off at 4 p.m., the tinny alert from the clock shooting and ricocheting through your brain like some kind of human pin ball machine. When you finally woke up your migraine was in full swing, and the disgusting combination of vomit, alcohol and sperm lingered in your mouth, tasting like the entire Russian army had shot their rocks in your mouth. In short, you felt like shit.

 

You reach over the nightstand to slide the alarm clock lever off, managing to spill the half-empty glass of now rancid beer that you'd used to wash down one too many sleeping pills last night.

 

"Mom?" you daughter Brianna's voice rings out from downstairs, the shrillness of her tone forcing another white-hot bolt of pain to shoot through you brain. "Mom? Time to get up!"

 

Role model you are not, Tessa, since your daughter has seen you hung over the morning - or afternoon - after one too many times, you having gotten totally wasted and shit-faced the night before. You lean up on one elbow to begin your ascent from the bed, staring at the puddle of beer staining the hard wood floor below and make a mental note to avoid stepping in it with your bare feet. You also note the remnants of beer still in the spilled glass, and drain what remains of the room temperature golden liquid before getting your sorry ass out of bed.

 

"Mom . . . !" your daughter's voice rings up the stairs for the umpteenth time.

 

"Coming honey!" you call down to Brianna, doing your best to put a motherly-sounding tone in your voice. You've been through this routine so many times before Tessa that you've got it down pat. If you respond quickly enough you know that she won't come upstairs to see that you've once again passed out in the clothes that you wore the night before. Even though she's seen you like this before you figure that you're still her mother and that you need to set the best example that you can. Flipping off the covers you notice what looks to be a now-permanent stain on last night's dress, a wet spot right between where your boobs would normally be.