It's not really a party, but more of a gathering. Ralph's friends are there; they stand in a circle and laugh uproariously and hold drinks in their hand. I refuse the cup they hand out to me. I'm not in the mood for blurry thoughts.
Someone sits next to me. I don't know him name, but I smile, turn away. He introduces himself anyway.
"I'm Juan," he says, and he puts an arm around my shoulders. I unconsciously lean into the touch, imagine for a moment that we're dating, that he cares about me, that I belong to him.
We watch the room, watch as everyone's eyes begin to droop, hear their words begin to slur. I'm the only sober one there; even Juan periodically sips from the bottle on the table in front of us. I smell it in his breath as he leans towards me.
He hand travels down to my waist, slips underneath my shirt, traces my hipbone. I breathe in sharply at the contact before he kisses me, roughly, wildly.
I don't move, observe his face. His eyes are closed, but sometimes his eyelids flutter and I see a sliver of white, hanging underneath his eyelashes like curtains, before they disappear in a contortion of his forehead. His cheeks are taut, concave, and his bones jut into the air with vendetta. His tongue is invading my mouth and I endure it, let him bite at my lips, let his fingers squeeze my waist and slip underneath clothes.
My hand hangs in my hair. I need a shower. His teeth clack against mine. I imagine scrubbing myself until I burn.
"Let's go to another room," he whispers. The smell of alcohol is suffocating. I shake my head, get up to leave. He holds my hand, pulls me back, kisses me again, hard and quick. "Let me get your number, then." I give it to him, turning away. He doesn't let go of my hand. I pull it from his grasp.
I don't respond when he texts me.