once, and only once, have i ever experienced that clichèd and poignantly awkward ritual known to my Group of Friends solely as The Walk Of Shame. Eightteen. typical weekend. someone's house, no, someone's property... stoli, rum, tequila and beer beer beer. cigarette after cigarette, pathetic conversation: "so, you know this guy? yeah, me either..." trailing off into the night... was it hot? no. it was cool. but not cold. june, is what it was. our fragmented stories and forever dwindling drinks were set against a june night.

across the room. talking intently to d. about... something... glockenspeils... oil versus tempera... this too-indie band versus that one. it's funny, because, somewhere on my walk down 4 city blocks, i forgot his name. erased it, like one does a wrong answer on their paper. because that's all he was- the wrong answer. but then again, i had the wrong question. i went to use the bathroom, find a bed. he followed me.

upstairs. "this party was supposed to be at my house, you know. my parents are out of town... but a. has all the alcohol hook ups. you know how it goes." i nod stickily and apathetically, and swallow against the taste of cigarettes and a's alcohol hook ups. "anyway, uhm, well. so, are you planning on staying here?" god no. who do you think i am? probably one of those desperate and bright girls that are always abundant at these types of parties... the ones my friends and i created the Walk Of Shame title specifically for. sure, they're wearing clothes from the same thrift stores as we are, and smoking lucky strikes and turning up their noses at cheap beer, but somehow, we're better, i'm better, than those girls because my eyes are lined with kohl, not maybelline, and my heels are flatter and easier to walk in, and years of ballet and inherited protruding bones have turned me into the (semi) sober example of heroin chic, and i'm upstairs and they're downstairs, and i don't have to look at this boy and pretend to be interested, because i've got my freedom, downstairs, with many faces and a martini in their hand. i don't have to bat my eyelashes at this nobody sitting across from me and say, "well... i honestly don't know where i'm planning to stay..."

"i need to go." he follows me down the stairs, he places his hand on my back and promptly removes it as my neck stiffens in disdain. i have my freedom. i am someone. i don't need your willing hand on my back, and i don't need your room or your coffee or your affection. i rely on someone else for that... the stairs end.

across the room. talking intently to m. about... something... politics... coffee versus tea... their coincidentally identical music taste... it's funny, because somewhere in the parade of those girls i remembered her name; won't ever forget it, wrote it down in pen: Michelle. m. and m. that's all she is, i think, breathing hard against my rising stomach. a stupid initial on a tacky necklace... that's all she is, just a typical, everyday, classless, talentless, tasteless- his hand's on her back. her neck doesn't stiffen. his head cocks to the right. the exit. wanna get out of here, michelle? wanna go talk about the time you plan to spend in the peace corps? wanna leave these children behind? who needs them. we have each other...

and i grab for his hand, his forearm, his wrist.
"did you say your house was empty?"


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i get out of bed, into shoes and bathroom and kitchen to filch a water bottle and a handful of extra strength tylenol without waking him, without looking at him. i sweep the floor for any of my belongings, vomit in his toilet and leave before the flush can rouse him. as warm and welcoming and promising as the air of the night had been, when i was someone, and had my freedom, the air in the morning was biting. now i had no one, and i was just another pathetic shell of a thing walking home from another party... four blocks. four blocks to walk. there's a girl, jogging with her dog. she gives me a look of what... pity? fuck. i know what i look like. tired, hungover, wearing last night's party clothes and too tight pants and too dark eyes. fuck. four blocks to go. a waiting cab driver helps a man load his luggage into his cab; a cab that blares dean martin's "this is what memories are made of." god, i hope not. i fucking hope not. better than them? i was just one of them. every drink, every cigarette, every allusion to literature or music, every kitschy outfit, every fucking thing out of my fashionably jaded teenage mouth came out of their mouths, and their friend's...
two more blocks. walk, walk, walk. walk in shame. walk of shame. Walk Of Shame.

the fire escape. the windows, always open. the bed, set in the middle of this giant open room... the easel i paint on, the boy who holds my hand at parties and fetches me drinks and carries me home. climb in, curl up. "pleased with yourself?" "fuck you." "what did you think that would accomplish?" "fuck. you." "get some sleep. i'm sure it's something last night lacked. and i suppose you'll try and blame this all on me. but you do these things to yourself, char. you know you do."

we do it to each other. all of us; the whole wretched Group. we kick each other while we're down, and then we drink to it that night. we relish in every hickey, bruise, blister and bit lip. we show them off. we find someone to kiss our wounds. we fuck ourselves up some more. so i suppose fault is something that's relative... eighteen. typical weekend, ended. i'll return to hillsdale and sit in class and laugh at your stunts and your attempts to impress me. you're too nice of a boy for me, fuck off. and return next weekend. this bed, these feelings. we're all doing The Walk, wherever we go. so we might as well stop being so damn pretentious and fuck it up together.