Oliver

You wake up to someone snoring right next to your ear. Your head is pounding, your mouth feels like the Sahara Desert. You're lying on someone else's couch, under someone else's blanket, and you only understand one thing: this isn't your room.

There was a party yesterday. It seemed great. Or maybe not so great. All you remember is someone shouting, "Come on, stay!" and then—darkness.

You sit up, and a wave of nausea immediately hits your head. You have to close your eyes for a couple of seconds. Two more people are tossing and turning in the room—on the floor under blankets, curled up on the chair. One of them is snoring especially loudly. It's cold. Someone's warm zip-up bag is hanging over the back of the chair—black with acid-green stripes on the sleeves, soft-looking, clearly expensive. It smells of familiar perfume.

It's quiet in the kitchen. You walk, shuffling your bare feet across the cold linoleum. Your head slowly clears. You turn on the coffee maker—it hums. There's already one mug on the table. That means someone's up. It's quiet in the kitchen. You walk, shuffling your bare feet across the cold linoleum. Your head slowly clears.

"What are you looking at?" you suddenly hear an irritated voice.

You blink. Your friend is standing by the window. He's angry. Really angry. His hair is sticking out in all directions. He's not looking at your face. He's looking at your chest.

“You’re wearing my sweater,” he says.