My phone lights up with a text message. On my way, it reads. I was supposed to meet my friends at a bar a few blocks away a half hour ago. I am still in bed, a book open in my lap, naked. I can’t focus on the words, and I have this awful feeling—I’ve barely been able to move all day. Everything take a whole lot of effort, lately.
Finally I gulp the last of my tea and drag myself out of bed and get dressed. It always takes a while to choose an outfit I won’t feel totally uncomfortable in. I consider a pair of heels, but I realize that if I wear them, I’ll tower over all of my girlfriends and probably some of the boys, too. I can’t bear to have people look at me, so I settle on flats. I wave a bit of mascara over my eyelashes and dab my lips with gloss, and I don’t like the way I look, but I guess I’ll have to do.
I put my things in a purse—just the essentials: wallet, phone, lip gloss, and I’m on my way out the door when I realize: I can’t do this. My heart starts racing and I think of all of the people there, the noise, and the awful drinks, and the way the tanned boys will leer at the girls in low-cut tops and tight jeans. I know that if I go, I’ll be sitting alone at a table in the corner while my girlfriends do a lap, and another, around the bar, looking for boys that aren’t too awful to wrench a drink from. And the terrible music will make my head ache and my outfit is all wrong and the beer tastes like water and I flop down in bed, flats and all, because there’s no way I’m leaving my quiet home tonight for that.
