After minutes of careful deliberation, I decide to go with Citizen Cope for the 3 minute drive. Good vibes. Before the first song ends, I arrive at the bar, windows rolled down. It’s a great night – the energy is palpable.
I fight off a pair of drunken sorority girls looking for a ride. Not tonight, ladies. I’m here for two DIFFERENT drunken sorority girls. Seconds later, she enters my path of vision, her co-pilot staggering footsteps behind. In just as much time, she enters my car. Pleasantries are exchanged.
“Thanks for picking me up!” she says. No problem. Little does she know, at this moment, Citizen Cope and I would do anything for her. I roll down the windows in the back so her friend won’t puke on my seats.
Headed dormside, I, surely stoned, try to make conversation. She is sociably intoxicated. After an intense minute of insignificant small talk, we arrive at our destination puke free. My car seats and I share a collective sigh of relief. “Well, this is it,” I say like a tired movie cliche. I always preferred hello’s to goodbyes with her.
“Thanks again,” she grinned as she pulled me into an embrace. A kiss on the cheek steeped in alcohol spontaneously evolved into a legitimate meeting of lips. Was it the alcohol? Was it Citizen Cope? Was it me? One thing I knew for sure: my lips felt better served kissing her than speaking the most profound quotations. It felt like the relief immediately after the most vicious of calf cramps relents. In that moment, I felt as if I could never kiss another girl and that would be fine. And she probably wouldn’t even remember the next day.
She got out of my car and life as quickly as she entered both.
After watching her casually dip inside the building, I changed the music to Rage Against the Machine and pulled away. It would probably be a while before I got over her. At least there was no puke to clean.