Last night is fragmented, shattered, a million little pieces lodged in the dusty corners of that bar, in the cracks of the tiles of the bathroom (bathrooms?) I vomited in. But even before I sit up, dig through my purse, checking that my wallet and phone are safely trapped inside, I know that nothing bad happened, that Anneliese took care of me.

And then I feel my stomach curling with shame like a noxious gas rising from my abdomen, and I open my eyes.

I’m alone in the room, and I seem to have splayed myself across the entire bed, kicking the sheets off, the pillows on the other end flung into different parts of the room. It’s wild to think that my body could do so much damage in one night, could effectively disarrange the entire area of a full-sized bed.

I’m in my midtwenties and I’m still acting like my body can get away with what I was doing at nineteen. Nothing about this is okay.

I plant both feet on the floor unsteadily. I’m completely nude, but I spot a shirt twisted in the sheets that I must have ripped off in my sleep. I pull on my underwear, jeans, and sweatshirt from yesterday, neatly folded on the dresser, burrowing myself in the fleece, pulling the hood over my head, welcoming the claustrophobia.

I close my eyes and take a breath before leaving the room.

Anneliese is in the kitchen, sliding eggs and toast onto a plate. My stomach lurches. Then I start to salivate at the thought of food, my head light with hunger. I put a hand on my forehead to steady myself.

“Oh, just in time! I thought you could use a little of the BRAT diet and some protein after last night.” She puts the plate on the kitchen table, gesturing for me to sit in the chair.

“You don’t have to do this. I can just leave,” I say, my voice husky. I dig my hands deeper in my sweatshirt’s pockets.

Anneliese gives me a quizzical look. “Stop that. You just had a little too much fun last night, and now you need nourishment. I’d do the same when you threw up as a kid.” She taps the edge of the plastic plate impatiently.

So I shuffle over and begin shoveling food into my mouth like I haven’t eaten in weeks. The eggs are perfectly to my liking, on the runny side with the tiniest bit of pepper, the sourdough bread burnt at the edges.

Anneliese watches me from across the way and hands over a glass of orange juice, which I gulp down greedily before I can stop myself. It feels like I’m taking a breath when I finally push the plate away and meet her eye.