He didn’t want to open his eyes. His head hurt more than enough without sunlight pouring into it. He groaned, rolled over and rubbed his face, hoping to make the pain go away. He continued his rotation to bury his face in his pillow which muffled the pronunciation of all his regrets from the night before. Once he completed this task, he sat up. The motion stirred whatever contents he had in his stomach. His eyes popped open as he searched for something to throw up in. The empty glass on his nightstand wasn’t large enough to hold everything he expelled. He was already miserable without the mess. He’d worry about it later and be pissed at himself for it.

He needed some water.

She didn’t scream or yell when she left, she didn’t do much more than take her crap and disappear. It was weird and upsetting to come home Monday after work and discover the note. Of course, he was crushed and didn’t know what to do with himself and an empty house. A week of lamenting his mistakes and cajoling from buddies got him out on some sort of awkward bar crawl by Friday night. They were bent on hooking him up. They told him he was being ridiculous and she wasn’t worth it anyway.

His legs were tangled. His pants were only half on. The other half was twisted with his sheet. Apparently, he’d rolled around a bit last night. He kicked a little, then thrashed when the white cotton refused to release its grip on his extremities. He felt like he was going to be sick again, but figured it was impossible after his first spill that morning. He pulled the sheet over his head and tried to think about the night before. He had an awful taste in his mouth and he wanted some water.

He didn’t have to pay for a single drink- his buddies were there for him. They equipped him with a pen and some scraps of paper before pushing past the bouncer into the first club. He eyed the place from one side to the other, and noted the most attractive women. He wasn’t really sure if he wanted to talk to any of them, so he ordered his first beer and waited for courage to arrive. It took a few drinks to get there.

His phone beeped at him. The sound hurt his head even worse. Was it his alarm, or was somebody calling him? He figured from the daylight that it had to be afternoon, but he wasn’t quite sure. He peaked out from under the sheet, turned and looked over the side of his bed to see that his vomit had splashed on his phone. He wasn’t about to touch it. He needed to get up and get some water.

Hours into the night, one of the girls, repulsed by his drunken advances suggested he drink some water and get his crap together. She probably wasn’t even sober herself, but it was obvious that he’d had way too much to drink. After that, he decided that none of them were worth this hassle. Girls were awful and his buddies sucked for getting him drunk. He didn’t want to be there, he wasn’t interested in these women and didn’t need anyone else. He felt like crap.

He needed water.

Not much later, he decided he was done- didn’t want to talk to a soul. They were all pathetic and couldn’t make him happy. In fact, they all pushed him to the miserable state he was currently enduring. He ducked out the back door alone and walked home. It took longer than it should have and it was a miracle that he didn’t hurt himself or get arrested. He was glad to sleep alone that night, even though his waking was full of remorse. He needed water, but didn’t want to get it. He desired love, but it would probably bring an encore of hurt along with it. The thought of a relationship or even some morally illicit one-night stand made him want to wretch again. He could be alone, he didn’t need any girls, or even his buddies who got him so drunk. He was dehydrated.

When love is more like water, everyone will drink.*

* Song lyric from “Streets” by Above the Golden State