I couldn't sleep if I tried

It’s 1:54 am on the last day of summer. I wake up because my neighbor lit off fireworks. Now the fireworks are gone, just like the moon. I can see almost nothing, which is so much worse than seeing nothing. My face isn't flushed anymore. I can hear my stomach. The ceiling fan squeaks and rocks. No, the fan is slowing down. I wish I could go back to sleep.

I put on a podcast about a movie I’ve never seen before. Only one of my earbuds still works. I try to stop listening, but I end up on a fan-made wiki with the movie's production trivia.

My back sticks to the sheets when I sit up.

After I make my feet brave enough for the cold floor, my fingers find a wall. A door. A light switch. The room stays dark.

I follow the wall to the kitchen and wash the taste of sweat from my lips. This does not help my stomach.

My roommate for the night - who cares what his name is - snores on the couch. He’s an actor. Not a good actor, at least for this city. He was in a movie I’ve never seen before. He smells like cigarette smoke and coffee. But he was sweet and handsome enough. I kissed a scar I didn’t let him tell me about. He can’t stay in bed, either. I mean I’ll kick him out in a few hours.

My actual roommate sleepwalked out to the one bar that was about to close by the time he got there. He ordered a big plate of nachos and dropped them off in a cold Styrofoam box because he was hungry but not that hungry. I don’t know where he is.

There's nothing else in our fridge except a carton of eggs, some chalky half-melted protein bars and an open jar of peanut butter. Fine. I grab one of the spoons from the sink and dig into the peanut butter. The first sweet taste tonight.

I fill a glass of water. I could go out. Find somewhere to dance. Go to a movie theatre instead of listening to someone else watching a movie. I wouldn't know where. My lips ache.

I grab a marker and write "off-limits" on the box of nachos so the guy on the couch doesn't get any ideas. He's not that good-looking.

My hip socket has felt stuck in place all night. I stretch as far as I can without making too much sound. I should be sleeping this off. The last time, I could just stretch – or I was so blissed out, I didn't care.

The heat sticks to the back of my throat, only the most recent clingy lover to know what I say before I say it, to make me predictable.

Tonight is unseasonably hot. I cover my face on a wet washcloth that will dry up too soon. An urge bubbles deep that this room is the wrong place to spend this night. I have to get anywhere else.

I check my phone again. I don’t know why. An algorithm has decided I am now interested in beach metal detection videos. The plastic on the phone case creaks as my fingers squeeze it tighter. The battery is almost gone. Did I not plug it in last night/earlier/whatever? I wish I could sleep. I wish I could slee-