The Witching Hour

I hate midnight. I hate being awake at midnight when I’m alone and there are drunk people outside loudly attempting to waltz. All the booming drunken guffaws with their breathy giggle counterparts, catching on burps and cigarette smoke…it’s painful. It makes me feel horribly guilty for all of my drunken shenanigans.

Trying to hide behind curtains while peering through the gap in them is hard. Impossible really. Luckily these people are oblivious.

The waltz has devolved into…I don’t even know. Vague circles that stretch into ovals and then snap shut. I don’t know what you’d call that, except for maybe stupid. Very, very stupid.

I enjoy listening to these people talk. I like hearing their words stumble over each other and collapse before the sentence is complete.

I’m going to pretend now that I have an actual alcohol tolerance, because if I don’t I’ll start to feel something vaguely like shame. No, my hand has never gotten confused and chucked my cell phone at a glass of hard cider, submerging said phone in the cider’s bubbly depths. And it definitely did not do that twice in one evening.

The couple is in the building now, climbing the stairs to the top floor. I can hear them walk down the hallway, with their irregular weaving steps. I can hear a door slam shut, and then, for the hundredth time this month, I can hear the creaking springs of the bed upstairs.

Seriously, this girl needs a hobby. I might destroy her otherwise.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak squeak. Squeeeak.

I need some tea.