EIGHT
Mila
I sitoutside with my head down to my knees—or as close to it is as I can get—trying to breathe and not panic. Thank god I’m in stretchy pants instead of jeans, or I couldn’t come close.
Calm down, Mila. You got this. It’s a memory bubbling up. You don’t have to let your feelings control you in every situation. Let it go.
After I calm down and my heart rate returns to normal, I check my phone. It’s only ten p.m., but I’m exhausted and want to go home.
Something else grabs my attention as I’m about to go back inside to tell my friends I’m leaving. A young college student stumbles out of the bar and proceeds to cross the street by herself. She’s wobbly in her high-heeled shoes, and I would venture a guess she doesn’t even know where she’s headed.
Shit.
What choice do I have? I resolve to follow her home.
The chick is a fast walker, and I have difficulty keeping up with my high-heeled boots. I’m tempted to take them off and follow her barefoot, but taking off these boots is a lot of effort.
Dammit, I gotta keep up.
Steeling myself for the pain in my feet, I pick up the pace. At the same time, there are so many students on the sidewalk that I keep losing sight of her.
Where are her friends? Her boyfriend?
It’s not lost on me that I, too, am a woman alone, at night, in a college town, in the bar district hours after an embarrassing loss to the Tarheels.
My mind goes to Ozzie and how maybe I should be nicer. Maybe he’d be here now, and I’d feel safer in this scenario. But then again, I can’t use his interest in me for my own advantage, can I? Even if I sort of want to date him but can’t? That would be wrong, right?
In front of O’Shea’s, a bunch of bros in tight shirts file out, reeking of cologne, whiskey, and sweat.
The group is now between the lone drunk girl and me, and they’ve spotted her. One of them elbows the other and then nods in her direction. “Hey Pudding, I bet you a hundred you can’t get her number.”
One of the other guys guffaws. “Pudding couldn’t get a phone number out of, like, the phone book.”
The bros find this hilarious, and a few bend over and slap their knees. I’ll remember not to engage in a battle of wits with those guys.
And I do not like that they’re taking bets on the lone drunk girl.
I walk faster, wincing in these boots with every step.
Pretty soon, the guy named Pudding has sidled up next to the girl, and I am now speed-walking to catch up.
Another gaggle of students spills out of another bar, further preventing me from seeing what’s happening.
I do not like this one bit.
Speed walking and darting around stumbling drunks becomes increasingly tricky. I try to squeeze through the crush of people with my big boobs and wide ass.
“Excuse you,” one tiny woman says, refusing to get out of my way when I gently try to move her aside.
“I need to get over there,” I say, waving my hand around to indicate farther down the street.
“Don’t we all,” she slurs, her eyes glassy. Oh god. The sense that inebriated people make wouldn’t fill a thimble.
“It’s an emergency,” I seethe, then grab her shoulders and physically move her to the side so I can pass.
Someone blurts, “Hey, bitch!”
And another someone asks, “What is wrong with her?”