Maria Zerva

Walk of Shame

clambering home at five in the morning, staggering on my
stiletto heels while my mini dress and hair look all
disheveled. the bars were fun, the
patrons hot, and a lot of the free shots and drinks found their way
into my mouth.
the things that happened in the noxious bathroom stall
shall remain unmentionable. it wasn’t the shame
of what had happened that had my stomach
all knotted up when the bus ride
somewhat sobered me up. it was knowing that
Dave was sleeping in my bed—I was hoping
he was sleeping, anyway. most of my friends said he was the best
thing that had happened to me. he was trying to
make me reduce my drinking, to make me stop
snorting coke. I hated him for that, for trying to
destroy my partying lifestyle, but loved him for
everything else. he didn’t mind my going out on
my own, he hated bars and nightclubs but knew I
needed to party and blow some steam just so I wouldn’t
explode, but he had no idea that I often blew more
than just steam, especially after five, and free,
double Wild Turkeys. I made it
home, he was sleeping; got undressed and slipped into the
bed next to him. I made a silent promise that it’d be
the last time, perfectly aware it was one of those
false promises I’d never keep.
and I didn’t. two days later, I was back in
the bars, accepting free drinks from tall, muscular men I
made sure to get under before they got too drunk to function.
eventually, Dave asked me to choose: him or the partying lifestyle.
a few hours after he asked me to choose, I was wearing my shortest skirt
and was dancing on a table in one of the city’s sleaziest nightclubs.