How Much Drunk We’d Got

We went to Chicago.
It was a long time ago.
The first night there,
we ate tapas, smoked cigars,
and then got in the biggest fight ever,
to that point.

I didn’t leave her downtown
like she wanted,
though there wasn’t any talking
driving back to where we slept
in separate beds.

She told me the next day she wanted to stay over
and make it up to me,
so we got a room in a gay hotel
and listened to blues down the street in a bar.

She got drunk on shots, disappeared for thirty minutes,
and passed out on the bathroom floor.

I felt no pain either, and slept
fitful and sweaty on top of the covers,
hoping she’d come out at some point
and fuck my brains out
like back in the day.

The next thing I know its later
and there’s a guy in the room with a pillow in his hands
saying I’m his present for the night,
before I came up off the bed, threw him out,
and double locked the door.

When the sun woke me
and I remembered whatever I could,
I thought the whole thing was an alcoholic dream

until I saw that pillow
at the foot of the bed.

She didn’t remember anything about anything
from the first shot on
and we drove back to Iowa
with the worst hangovers we’d ever imagined,

still freaking about the fight,
how much drunk we’d got,

and me the guy with the pillow.