Monday, October 08, 2012

1AM Drunk

I am home late after taking the last flight of the day into State College from Philadelphia. It is one of the last nights where the night air is cool enough to make me cozy and warm enough to not make me miserable. The windows are open.

I hear stomping and heels and tense, brass female voices rising outside my window. The sentence I understand is between a plea and a sob and an angry accusation: "You think it can be all about you just because it's your birthday tomorrow?"

The words were meaningless. It was the raw pain in her voice. The drink in her veins taking what goes about hidden during the day and giving it voice at night. It is not the situation or her friend's birthday at has upset her. It is something else and it is painful. It is a silent wail.

I want to go outside and tell her that its okay. That I know she's not really upset about the birthday but some other unspoken thing. I want to tell her that she doesn't have to be okay in the day time as she is in the night. I want to give her a mug of tea.

It felt like being an RA again, where I would debate in my half asleep state whether I had to go address the situation. And by addressing, that meant leading them back to their rooms and then writing up an incident report and telling them they violated quiet hours, even if I would rather tuck them back in bed or hold back their hair as they dangerously puked their guts out. The tension stressed me. I came to resent my residents because of that impossible tension, grateful when I no longer had to discern justice and intervention with every sound in the night.

Tonight, I am free from fixing her. I whisper a helpless prayer from under my covers and listen as more heels go by, echoing across the fallen leaves between the sound of rain on leaf dressed sidewalks.

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