Standard Victory Laps

Imogene woke up on her air mattress. That wasn't unusual.

What was unusual was that someone else woke up there, too.

When her eyes blinked open, she saw a blurry blob of white—what she took to be Ginger's unmade bed. On that unmade bed was another blob of something red, which must have been one of Ginger's revealing cocktail dresses, thrown casually aside. Imogene's head was killing her as though an axe had split her corpus callosum—the worst headache of her whole life.

She felt around for her glasses, which weren't in their usual spot on the floor. That was especially strange, as Imogene was a creature of habit. She reached under her pillow, felt around the covers, and found her glasses hooked between her legs. That was odd.

She looked down at herself and saw she was wearing a white t-shirt she'd never seen before...and no underwear. Her heart rate quickened. That was very odd.

Without thinking, she threw her arm across the other side of the mattress, and slapped someone in the face.

"OW!"

Imogene shrieked and turned around to see a bare-chested Maurice Moss lying next to her, holding his right cheek.

"MUM!" he cried. "THAT HURT! FOR THE LAST TIME, I DIDN'T TAKE YOUR RUDDY BRA!"

Imogene stared at him as he wiped his eyes beneath his glasses. He gathered himself and did a double take when he saw her, staring up with wide, guilty eyes.

His tone was grave. "Oh..."

She shot up in bed and tore her pillow out from underneath him, whacking him with it ferociously and repeatedly as he curled into the fetal position.

"Are you out of your mind? You perverted pig; I should call the police! Did you even use a condom? How dare you take advantage of a poor young girl under the influence!"

"Aagh! What did I do? Please don't hurt me!"

She gasped with a sudden realization and covered her mouth with her hand. "Under the influence! My God! I was DRUNK! My dad is gonna kill me! I am so dead!" She hit him a second time. "I can't believe you got me drunk! You're just another one of those drunks and junkies!"

"Aagh! Help!"

She hit him so hard he screamed a little, and then she stood up, using the pillow to hide her bare legs. Looking around the room, she saw that the blob on the bed was one of his button-down shirts, and most of their clothes were strewn carelessly around the room. Her breath was heaving with panic.

"What time is it?" she said shakily.

"I don't know!" Moss groaned in pain. "I'm just as hungover as you are!"

"Where's my alarm?" She felt around the floor and finally found it. "Oh my God! Oh no! I'm late for work, dammit!"

"Oh no! Me, too! And I don't have time to go home and eat Mum's breakfast!"

She popped up from the floor and stared at him. "What is it with you and your mum?"

"We live together. Are you wearing my shirt?"

"Oh my God. My God. You're thirty-six and you live with your mom? I mean, I know I'm one to talk, but Jesus. I'll never hear the end of that. God, I'm so stupid!" She picked up the pillow and whacked him again. "I can't believe you. This is ALL YOUR FAULT!"

She snatched up some clothes and left the room, locking herself in the bathroom and dressing in a mix of what she wore yesterday and what looked to be Ginger's lace underwear. The thong rode up a bit in the back.

She watched herself in the mirror, and her eye caught on something. Red speckles along her neck—those hadn't been there before. Frantically, she shoved her face closer to the glass and pulled the collar of her shirt down to reveal, yes, a giant line of love bites. Great. Just great. She opened the cupboard behind the mirror and rummaged through Ginger's medicine cabinet for foundation—aha, there was the morning after pill. No wait, that was for nasal decongestion. Dammit.

There was the foundation, giant containers of suntan-tinted goop. She opened the bottle and squirted a giant pool into her palm—she'd never done her own makeup before. Her mom always did it for her. She started wiping the concealer over the bites, and giant globs of it ran down her neck as though flooding a pool of her own guilt.

Someone knocked. Moss.

"Go away!"

He opened the door anyway, revealing he was half-dressed with an open fly and belt, without a shirt.

"Aagh!" Imogene screamed. "What are you doing?"

"Can I have my shirt back, please?"

"Can I finish getting dressed first?"

"I can't get dressed without my shirt!"

"You're the one who let me wear it!"

"That's not true! You stole it because you said sleeping naked was cold!"

"I don't care what I said!" Imogene rubbed the foundation harder. "Dammit, I'm so pale. Why does Ginger have such a nice tan! And now it's only more visible. I could curse!"

"Perhaps you should use a hot spoon instead. Those tend to work better for love bites. Just warm it up and press it on. That's what Jen told me at least."

"What are you still doing here? Go! Go!"

She pushed him out of the room and shut the door despite his protests, then locked the door for real and clipped on her bra.

"Imogene?" asked Moss in a muffled voice.

"Leave me alone!" she yelled. "I'm not speaking to you again!"

Outside the door, he hung his head and buttoned his fly. "Okay."

"I should have you reported to the police! Just wait until my father hears about this!"

"Please don't report me. I can't do any more community service! Those children were monsters!"

She poked her head out of the bathroom with her face in a maternal scold. "What do you mean, any more community service?"

"I thought you weren't speaking to me anymore."

"I changed my mind. Are you a convicted felon?"

"I'd tell you my story, but it's no fun without the bandanna."

She reached behind her and whipped his beige-soaked shirt at him. "I'll have you know I wasn't raised to associate myself with people like you."

"Your father built the prototype for the world's greatest desktop monitor in his grandmother's kitchen. People like me fathered someone like you."

She slammed the door. A second later, she growled and yelled, "Goddamn this tangled-up sex hair!"

Moss slid into his prized white shirt. "Oh, blimey. It's covered in makeup! Not to mention the color is slightly off from my skin tone, which means Mum will definitely know I'm up to something!"

Back in the bathroom, Imogene yanked her fingers through her hair to get out the knots. Leaving it down might help cover up the foundation-hickey mess. She brushed her teeth and recommenced rummaging through the cabinet for the morning after pill.

"Where's my tie?" Moss whined.

"How should I know?" she snapped.

Imogene reemerged from the bathroom, her poise awkward due to that very uncomfortable thong. She couldn't help but adjust herself with every step as she made her way to the fridge for some breakfast. "Oh, God. It still smells like that shrimp!"

"Crab," Moss corrected. "Are you sure you haven't seen my tie? I can't leave without my tie!"

"You've ravaged my body. Is that not enough?"

Moss glared at her. "If you didn't want to have sex, then why did you bring it up last night?"

She threw her hands in the air. "I was drunk! And we both know I didn't agree to anything."

"You asked if I wanted to have sex and I said yes. That sounds like consent to me."

"Yeah, well, don't trust a girl who's never been drunk before."

"I never have sex with a lady unless she explicitly tells me she wants to. Do you know how rare it is that a woman wants a piece of this? What's the point in forcing myself on someone and ruining my chances? Rapists never get any action."

"That's a really weird way of looking at it, but okay." Imogene found a small pill bottle on the counter and read the label. "Huzzah! The morning after pill! To make sure this whole thing doesn't result in a repulsive human child."

"Ugh. I really need to find my tie."

"Have you looked in the bedroom?"

"I will again."

"Ginger probably has a bunch of ties left over from her one-night stands if you don't mind digging around in her closet."

"One-night stands? Didn't you say she was engaged?"

She faux laughed. "I didn't say she was faithful."

"Oh, wait! Here it is!" Moss bent over and picked up his tie from the floor. "I remember now. You tore it off like a tiger ripping into a dead gazelle, and slammed it to the ground like an excited gorilla would a toy tire—"

"I don't want to hear about it!" she interrupted, guzzling the last of her water. She opened a cupboard and pulled out a granola bar, then tossed Moss the rest of his things. "Here. We need to go."

He pulled on his jacket and followed her out the door. "My mum is going to be so worried. I bet I'll have a bunch of missed calls."

Imogene fumbled with her backpack straps and then with the lock. "I really don't care, Moss."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. "Yep. Sure enough. Two hundred and forty one missed calls from Mum. Seems like she just kept calling and calling. There's one for every minute. Looks like she left a voicemail each time, too."

"Your mom and my dad should have a party."

"She is looking for someone. What does your dad look like? Is he very tall? She prefers tall men. Tall, quiet, black men who wash up and eat what's put in front of them."

"My dad's married! Plus, now that we've slept together, don't you think the idea of us being stepsiblings is just weird?"

"I rather like the idea. We could share a room."

She turned around and stared at him intently. He stared back.

"There's so many things wrong with that, I can't even..."

Suddenly, Imogene's phone rang. She rummaged through everything and finally tugged it out of a back pocket. "Oh, crap. It's Jen!" She put the phone to her ear. "Hi! Jen! Yes, I'm running late, I know. I'll be there in a—what? Why am I late? Well, that's funny. You see I, um...I just, uh..."

"You slept in," Moss suggested. "Your father died. Your mother has cancer. You've just killed someone and must run away to Africa."

She covered the speaker. "Shut up!"

"Is that Moss with you?" Jen asked on the other end of the line.

"What? No!" Imogene faux laughed. "Haha. No. I haven't seen Moss in...days! Weeks!"

"Didn't he walk you home last night?"

"Wha...I don't..."

"She's going to find out anyway," Moss whispered.

"Shut up! Not you, Jen. That's just, uh...my roommate. Look, I'm sorry I'm late, I'm...I'm stuck in traffic!"

He shook his head. "What, in London? You don't have a car."

"Bye bye!" Imogene hung up and turned back to Moss. "Could you make this any worse?"

"I didn't have any breakfast. I'm a bit out of sorts."

"Oh, you are?"

"Yes, aren't you?"

Imogene facepalmed and began walking down the stairs. "First my roommate turns out to be a drunk, then everyone at my new job hates me, then I find out Dad sent me overseas to get me out of the way, then I go against all my values and sleep with my coworker, sacrificing my celibacy AND my lifetime sobriety—Riddle me this: what hasn't gone wrong on my trip to England?"

"I feel like you've made this list before."

"I have. You're following me. Why are you following me?"

"Have you forgotten there's only one way out of the building? And only one way to the office?"

"Goddammit. Crap!" She slapped her own arm as punishment. "Now I'm swearing like a madman. When did that start?"

"You've been saying some form of 'damn' about three times a minute."

"You're not helping."

They exited the apartment building and found themselves on the street. The cars were slow—they were long past the work rush. Imogene scanned the roads and bit her lip.

"Is there a bus that comes by at this hour?"

"Not sure," said Moss. "I'm never late, and I never bunk off. How would I know the bus schedules around now?"

"You live in London, don't you!"

"That doesn't mean I know the bus schedule! We'll just have to walk. Or run, although that might prove counterproductive considering our athletic abilities."

"Shut up."