Best Case

It was always the waking up that surprised her.  Not because she didn’t claim ownership over her own reckless behavior, but because she found that a little sleep, even forty minutes or so, produced just enough conscious distance that she was startled by the evidence around her.  That evidence, usually in the form of vomit (or worse) on her clothes, or receipts, or other sundry items that made it home with her somehow, served to confirm events from the previous night that those few moments of sleep attempted to wash away.  But the evidence was clear and couldn’t be disputed. 

As long as she was alone, she could imagine a “best case” scenario.  And she was almost always alone.  She made it home most nights – clutched that tiny victory of self-control fiercely, like a baby with a soggy cheerio in her closed fist.  Waking up anywhere other than home seemed a double defeat.