Kita

It feels like somebody's wrung me out, like a wet towel. I feel depleted. Except for my head, which is filled with a nest of caterpillar cocoons or something, trying to burrow their way out through my ears.

Oh my God. What happened last night?

Slowly, I open my eyes just a crack, just the barest sliver that lets in a sharp slice of burning light. No way. I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, blocking out the rest of the light.

Wait a second.

This is not my pillow. It's filled with something else, like gel or something. And the pillowcase is so thick it's almost denim. But soft, really soft. Without opening my eyes, I push my finger along the pillowcase fabric until it ends, and then another pillow begins.

I'm not in a twin bed? So… I'm not in my own bed, definitely.

Some brilliant part of me just wants to go back to sleep and reboot this entire day. I've been awake for all of twenty seconds, and I know I need a do-over. Maybe if I could just fall back to sleep…

But I can't stay on my stomach. I'm going to have to move, because I can feel the cocoons in my head sloshing threateningly back and forth.

I’m going to be sick.

No. I'm definitely not going to be sick.

Slowly I roll over onto my back again, dropping my forearm over my eyes so I can maybe peek out just a little without getting the full spectrum laser light show on my burning eyeballs. What I can see is just glare and white, and I blink over and over again, trying to get everything to work correctly.

After a few minutes of watching the seam between the wall and the ceiling to make sure that it isn't teeter-tottering too dramatically, I convince myself that I might be able to sit up. I mean, if it doesn't work out I can always lay back down.

I roll onto my side and push myself to sitting, still hunched over and gripping the side of the mattress. From under the fringe of my hair, the light is not too intense. I can kind of make out the dove gray sheets, the charcoal gray comforter. Far below my feet, the gunmetal gray plush carpeting, which looks so dense and luxurious I'm rather tempted to go ahead and plunge my toes into it. Just go for it. Just throw caution to the wind.

And when I do, it is everything I hoped. The carpet is so thick and wonderfully springy, part of me is tempted to do a cartwheel right here, just to get a real feel for it. I know that is stupid, but I still want to.

Deliberately, I stand up straight, centering myself and raising my arms over my head in a quick, abbreviated yoga routine known as a sun salutation. It will get my blood pumping, I know. It might even convince my body to just wake up and stop feeling so thoroughly crummy.

But as the fog begins to clear, I only become more curious. Where am I? And why is everything in his room so gray?

The sheets are gray, the blanket is gray, the carpeting… Everything. The simple dresser appears to be weathered beechwood. The walls are a muted silver. Even the doorknobs are basically pewter.

Whoever this owns this house must really love gray.

Or maybe they're colorblind? Yeah. I shouldn't assume.

On shaky legs, I walk carefully over to the first door and tug on the doorknob. It's a closet, and behind the door is a full-length mirror. My reflection startles me. Actually it kind of horrifies me. I stand there for a few minutes and just look at myself. I went out like this? This is barely even a top. It's like tissue paper. How on earth did I let Lizzie talk me into this?

Even the skirt is ridiculous. In the bright light of morning, if it is still morning because who knows how long I slept, this skirt just seems ridiculously inappropriate. I wish I had a bathrobe. I wish I had a caftan or a muumuu or something.

Out of the corner of my eye, though, I see a neat array of dress shirts. Men's dress shirts. Unconsciously, I drag my finger along them, fanning them out on their hangers like I’m strumming a harp.

Oh, wait.

Oh my God, did I go home with a man?

I squish my thighs together, and they feel just the same. If I had “been with” a man, I would know, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I feel different or something?

What do I remember? Lights and a huge speaker pumping out bass rhythms. Lizzie’s flame-red hair. A crowd of men pushing through the door.

Do I remember a man? Anything?

My mind gropes around like a blind person searching for a lost contact on the floor. Nothing. I have no details about this person stored in my memory at all.

Well, it's definitely a man who likes gray. That’s something to know, I guess. His wardrobe is all in muted shades: white shirts with gray pinstripes, gray shirts with white pinstripes, and the whole rainbow from very light gray to do very dark gray. Honestly.

Before I overthink it, I've unbuttoned the top button on a beautiful pewter shirt and slid it off its hanger, then around myself. It's so supple and luxurious, it envelops me like a coat. Instantly, I feel better. Safer. Not quite as exposed and shaky.

You're being ridiculous, Kita. It's just a shirt for Pete’s sake.

But as I see myself in the mirror, I kind of like the way it looks. The sleeves are far too long so I fold them up. The tail comes down almost to the backs of my knees.

If I had a belt, I bet I could make this work, I tell myself wryly.

Now, I feel a little bolder. I pad over to the next doorknob and turn it slowly, peeking out through the crack before entering the hallway. It's so quiet here, just a long hallway with a few doors. I head toward the one across the hall, hoping for a bathroom and stop.

There is a photograph on the wall, a framed portrait of three men standing in front of an American flag. They're all buttoned into their dress-up uniforms — what are they called? Not the camouflage ones or fatigues or whatever, but the nice ones — with their chests puffed out and white caps low on their foreheads. Jaws clenched, all three sort of stare at the camera as though daring it to try something funny.

They all look vaguely familiar, as though I've seen them on TV. Actually, only the two on the right look familiar. Now that I think of it, I really have seen them on TV, on one of those political talk shows, going into as little detail as possible about some military activity in Afghanistan or Russia or something. I don't really remember.

But the one on the left, he's familiar for a different reason. As I squint at him, another image swims to the surface of my mind, coming into focus like the shapes in a magic eight ball. I remember this face, kind of. I saw him last night, at the bar.

But as I try to latch onto the memory, it keeps slipping away from me. He was talking to me. I remember. Except, I don't remember at all. I kind of remember his lips moving. I remember the low grumble of his voice and how close he seemed, how he seemed to have a sort of gravity that pulled me in and I was falling, falling, falling into his arms…

But then it is gone. The memory just dissolves like smoke, running away from me the more I try to focus on it. With a sigh, I reach for the next doorknob and twist, extremely grateful to find a bathroom.

I don't know why, but I close the door super quietly behind me. I don't know if I'm trying to hide my movements, or what. Obviously if there's anybody home, they know I'm here. It’s not a secret or anything. But something about the subdued interior of this house makes me feel like I'm supposed to be quiet.

Under the cylindrical sconces in the bathroom, I look a fright. My eyes are ringed with flakes and smears of mascara. One of my eyebrows is all pushed the wrong way as though I spent a lot of time sleeping on my face.

Swearing under my breath, I just turn on the cold water full blast to fill my hands with it. The second before I splash it onto my face, I know it's going to feel fantastic. This is just what I need: a cold, bracing slap to wake me up. Get clean. Get scrubbed.

The block of soap is rough and earthy. Though it leaves my skin way too dry, I like knowing that it's about as clean as I can get. After thinking on it for just a second, I pull open the drawer under the sink. It's perfectly neat with three extra bars of soap, five toothbrushes laid neatly next to each other, and two travel size tubes of toothpaste, still in their original boxes.

I smile to myself. Whoever’s house this is, I wonder if this is just like his personality: everything has a place, everything in its place. Everything neat and tidy, with nothing loud or rambunctious. He's probably not even colorblind, after all. All that gray just sort of goes together.

And for some reason, I kind of like it. After the last five years, bouncing from place to place, finally ending up in the Technicolor chaos of the Chi Rho Pi sorority house, all of this order and neatness really appeals to me. This is the kind of house I would like to have, when I have my own house. Well, maybe with a bright blue throw pillow here and there, anyway. Or cantaloupe. I love that color.

Teeth brushed and face scrubbed, I stare at myself in the mirror and give myself a good glare.

All right, Kita. You've dilly-dallied long enough. Time to get your butt back into the real world.

After I wipe the water droplets from the sink, I creep back out of the bathroom. It’s still quiet and still. Maybe I’m alone? But when I hit the top stair, I can hear some noises downstairs. What am I supposed to do, thank my host? Disappear without a trace?

Accuse him of kidnapping?

Maybe sneak out the back door? That actually seems like a pretty good idea.

Walking lightly on the balls of my feet across the slate tiles, I head for the source of the noise. A wide archway leads into a kitchen. I can just make out the corner of a granite topped island when I stop.

There he is.

And he’s making pancakes?

My mouth kind of falls open a little bit. It's the man from the photograph, certainly. He looks different. His hair is thick and close-cropped, dusted with silver at his temples. He scowls at a sauté pan as he jerks it in his hand and flips the pancake, landing it precisely in the middle of the pan. Steam wafts dramatically upward. His muscles clench and unclench with every motion under the gray tank top. I can see the ridges of his abdominal muscles rustling under that fabric as he moves back and forth.

Something about his animal strength being displayed for the homely task of making pancakes makes me tremble through my core. I jam my thighs together again, trying to keep myself still. Something twinges inside me, like a rubberband snapping that I didn’t even know was there.

Is this real life? This kitchen is gorgeous, with stainless steel appliances and black enameled cabinetry. Light from a skylight filters down and makes everything seem to coolly glow.

Without looking up, he says: “Don’t just stand there. Come and sit down, Kita.”

And I want to, but I also want to run.

Yet, I find my feet obediently shuffling in his direction.