James drove back to his house as if he were in a Hanna Barbera road race. Phoebe hugged herself against the cold; she couldn't get warm. Why couldn't she get warm?

“James, we left my coat!”

“What coat?” James had not intention of going back or slowing down.

The motion of the car as it angled and curved made Phoebe sick to her stomach, which held an astonishing amount of hummus, mixed nuts and red wine. She put all her energy into keeping her stomach from heaving it up. She thought she’d done a good job until they got to James’ house and he came around to pull her from the car.

“What the fuck?” James' voice was loud in her ear.

“What?”

“What did you do? I don't believe this.”

“I don't know. What did I do?”

“You're all wet.”

“Oh.”

And then she could feel it, the rapidly cooling liquid soaking her underwear and pants. She'd pissed herself at some point, probably when she was trying so hard not to vomit.

“It’s not my fault. I don't usually drink that much. I don’t take pills!”

“You're going to have to go.”

“Go where?”

“Home. You're going to have to go home. Do you think you can catch the bus?”

“Can I at least use your bathroom? To clean up?” Phoebe started to cry. The piss in her underwear was feeling icy.

James looked from the house to her and back again, clearly struggling to make up his mind about extending this courtesy.

“Fine, but hurry up.”

---

Andrew met them at the front door, a big smile on his face.

“You're back...”

“She's here.” James stepped aside to reveal Phoebe and her wet crotch. “She needs to use the bathroom and then she's leaving.”

Andrew’s smile faded and he folded his arms. “I thought you said…”

“I can’t anticipate everything, can I? I can’t anticipate that she’s going to piss herself.”

“Is she an alcoholic or what?”

“I can hear you. I’m standing right here,” Phoebe said.

“Oh, right,” Andrew said. “Be careful in the bathroom, please. I just cleaned it.”

Phoebe went to a small bathroom just off the kitchen. She took off her pants and underwear and wrung them out in the sink. The effort made her hot and dizzy. The underwear (thankfully, one of her best pair) slid from her fingers and landed on the floor in a damp, compact ball. She held onto the sink as a major upheaval convulsed her stomach. She leaned over the pristine sink, noting as she did its stainless steel soap pump and spotless porcelain and let go the floodgate.

She turned the water on to cover the sounds of her retching and to try to make the soggy chunks of bread and globs of disintegrating hummus go down the drain. But having to look down at the contents of the sink made her stomach seize again and her mouth fill with saliva. Blindly, she turned to where she though the toilet was but missed by about two feet. A hot spattering of vomit hit the tiled floor.

She knelt down next to the toilet. There was a very fuzzy mat on the floor and she lowered herself into child’s pose to allow her cheek to rest against it. It was soft and comforting, like nuzzling one’s face into a Sesame Street character. She closed her eyes. Really, she thought, she felt so much better now that everything was out of her stomach, although it did smell awful in the bathroom and her bottom was catching a draft. She just needed a few minutes to rest and then she would get up, put her pants back on and walk out of the house with her head held high. She would go to the bus stop. Just a few minutes.

She fell asleep.

NEXT