For Those Who Don't Believe in Love Songs

Chapter 18 - The Song

April 6, 1997

Everything was painfully white. Martha peeled off James' comforter. Her feet were bare, but otherwise, she wore her clothes from the night before. Last night... How... She remembered dancing... and laughing with a strange girl... and being pulled out of the party... and anger...

She didn't remember throwing up, but the horrid film covering the inside of her mouth was evidence enough. She lifted her head to look around James' studio apartment and the vise constricted. Cliché or not, it was the only way to describe it. Some sadist had fastened the clamps to the sides of her head and was steadily tightening. Dropping her head back onto the pillow only made it worse as the rush of blood crashed upon the sides of her skull like a tidal wave on a helpless shore. She sat back up and saw a note card leaning against the lamp on the nightstand. Martha was written on its front in James' hand. She turned it over.

Good morning or afternoon. I imagine you're feeling unwell. If so, there's a smoothie in the fridge that should help. I'm going to the lab and then out to run a few errands. Call me if you'd like to meet up.

Love you,

James

PS It turns out I don't have any Frosted Flakes. I hope you can forgive me.

Frosted Flakes?? Martha couldn't fathom what he meant by that. Regardless, she did feel unwell, so she stood and trudged from the bed to the attached kitchen. The clock in the stove read 12:43. She opened the refrigerator and found, between the cartons of almond milk and eggs, a glass of light green slush. She took it from the refrigerator and a straw from a nearby drawer. The top of the smoothie had melted so she used the straw to stir and redistribute the ice. Then she took a drink. She wasn't sure what was in the smoothie, but as it hit her throat, the nutrients seemed to rush into her bloodstream, not content to wait for her stomach. She had to brace herself against the counter as she downed the rest of the glass. Her head pounded one last time from holding her breath, then the pain diminished.

She wiped her upper lip dry and her mind began to clear. Last night remained mostly blank, but she was able to remember tomorrow's Modern World History exam on the Soviet - Afghan War, for which she had yet to study. Ugh, why did I put it off?

She took a shower, then dressed comfortably. For a moment, she was tempted to collapse back onto James' bed and sleep for who knows how long. But this exam was happening whether she closed her eyes or not. She needed to study. She needed to leave the apartment.

After stretching her dehydrated muscles, she slipped her notebook and textbook into her canvas satchel bag and made for the door. Once in the hallway, she slammed the door louder than intended then winced, hoping none of James' neighbors were also suffering from last night's bad choices. She reached into her sweatshirt pockets for the apartment keys, but they were empty. Come on, brain.

Back inside the apartment, her keys lay next to her walkman on an end table. She grabbed them and packed the walkman as well.

Door locked and finally outside, Martha squinted from the sun. Her first breath of fresh air, however, convinced her the excursion was the right idea. She decided to study at the Morrison Library. Its reading room was quiet and its couches comfortable. Just so long as I don't fall asleep. It was too far to walk, but there was a bus stop midway. To that end, she headed south on Shattuck Ave.

She forced herself to think about the Soviet - Afghan War. The Mujahideen... Neonid Brezhnev... Olympics boycott... Oh God, who cares?

Her mind gravitated back to James. As pleasant as his letter was and as thoughtful the smoothie, she had a feeling that they'd fought the previous night. But still, her memory failed her. It certainly wasn't easy to fight with James. She could count the occasions on one hand. Always so damn accommodating. But still...