She woke up to find herself on a hard surface. There was a throw pillow, the type often nestled in the crooks of couches, her head had been resting on. And on her there was a throw blanket to match.
She thought it was funny, as in peculiar, that she had been set up to sleep in the middle of a kitchen floor. A kitchen that wasn’t hers, no less. In the dim space only illuminated by a microwave clock that read: 3:30 AM, she looked around, then realized that she was in C’s kitchen and house.
The flashback from a few hours before, a Thursday night out on Santa Monica’s Main Street, came to her - with the exception of how it ended. She giggled, before she realized she was still tired. And dizzy. While realizing she had to work that day, a Friday, she crawled around to the living room where she saw a figure on the couch covered with still another throw blanket. “C,” she thought. “C wanted to keep me company.” She sought the comfort and company of the couch and girlfriend as she crawled in - head to feet, feet to head.
6 AM. Daylight. She woke up.
She saw the blonde hair at the other end of the couch yet could discern now that this was not, in fact, C. Instead, it was whom she recognized as the house guest visiting from Paris, a girl she met immediately before they headed out to Main the night before. And then she realized that the guest had migrated her head as far from her feet as possible. She understood, as she became completely embarrassed.
She left the couch and ran upstairs to C’s bedroom, where C indeed lay. She crawled in.
7:30 AM. Even broader daylight. They woke up.
C started laughing at E. “What happened?!?” I exclaimed. “Why was I on the kitchen floor? I don’t even remember!”
“I was heating something up in the kitchen after we came home, and then you decided to pass out on the kitchen floor,” C said. “You just seemed so adamant about doing it right there and then - I couldn’t stop you - so I got you a pillow and blanket.”
They laughed hysterically.
A delayed workday and a weekend later, C recounted the houseguest from Paris telling of the astonishment of having feet shoved in her face as she slept.
It’s true. No matter the circumstance, environment, sound or comfort level, passing out is my favorite thing to do.
9 Comments
passing out and then 69′ing a stranger: priceless!
Awesome… attacked by feet in the sleep!
@big league: Yes, I guess that is what happened, exactly, isn’t it?
@soulstop: I know - good thing my feet smell like roses on a bad day.
You have a good friend there.
Size 9’s no less!
@twolims: Indeed, I’m the luckiest girl in the world!
@jimmwin: Excuse me, I wear an 8.5. Speaking of, “C” is 5′10″ and I am a mere 5′4″ … and we both wear the same shoe size. Yes, indeedy, I can swap shoes with a girl who is a half-foot taller than me.
Just tell Mademoiselle that it’s an American thing. Or an LA thing. Borat taught us all that cultural arguments win.
@Lexybeast: Haha, actually Mademoiselle is an American living in Paris. Now doesn’t that sound familiar…?
Crap. All those years when I was a kid watching David Suchet play Hercule Poirot just totally failed me.