OH, DEAR

In bed, he tries to remember a word. Her name. Isabel? Nora? Amy? None of those names rings any bells, to be honest. Laura? He glances at the woman sleeping too close to him. In the dim predawn light that tints everything blue through the curtains, she looks like a Laura. Why does he think that? No idea. Maybe she told him her name was Laura.

He inches away from the stranger and manages to sit up on the bed. His feet search for shoes that aren't there. Just carpet slippers. Why on earth did he wear carpet slippers on a date? If he can't even remember the woman's name, this can only mean a one-night stand, someone he picked up at a bar. How drunk was he last night? Where did he lose his shoes?

When he finally gets up, he doesn't feel drunk or any hints of a hangover. Just a little panicked. He remembers stories. Mrs. Robinson. Wait. That was in a movie. But there were stories; he's sure of that. There's even a name for these women, right? Something wild, predatory. Panther? Tigress? Harpy? No, not that. Cougar! Yes! Cougar.

The voice of the woman who might be a cougar, or not, whose name might be Laura, or not, suddenly cuts through his haze like a foghorn: “What are you doing? What's wrong?”

He's always believed that honesty is the best policy, so he comes clean: “I'm leaving. I just… I can't find my shoes. Or my clothes.” He realizes he’s wearing what looks like some other man’s pajamas. A larger guy. Her husband? Oh, God, not a husband!

“Leaving?” The woman sounds shocked.

Since when does he fancy older women? And “older” is him being generous. What was he drinking last night? Could this woman have actually slipped something into his drink?

The woman checks the alarm clock on the nightstand next to her, and the foghorn hits him again: “Oh, for Christ’s sake, David, it's not even 5 AM yet!”

Could-be-Laura knows his name. Of course she does. Women remember these things. It’s now obvious to him she's mad because he was trying to leave before breakfast without a goodbye or a thank you very much. But what else could he do? Stay in bed and… whatever… again with an older woman whose name he has no recollection of? Did he just use the word “again”? His mind pauses for a moment. Did they… last night? He's not asking her, that's for sure.

Then, for some reason, the woman's expression softens. The foghorn sounds almost tender when she says, “It's alright, dear. Just come back to bed. I'll call your doctor in the morning and tell him the pills aren't working anymore.”

▪️▪️▪️