I had envisioned this scene only 15 minutes earlier while I choked down 20 kratom capsules. Their plastic shells pressed against my throat. Another sip of water was out of the question if I wanted to be on time.
Silently sliding up onto the highway from the street below, passing beneath the shoulder, up the ramp onto I-35. Those overpasses reminiscent of the highways of my childhood in NY.
That’s when I choked. A fine plume of kratom was now visible in the air. My gauge reflex, over sensitive from years of pharmaceutical & cocaine post-nasal drip, bucked as I suppressed the spasms. The violent heaving overcame any force of will I had been relying on.
A putrid mix of bile, kratom, and coffee was ejected into my lap. Tiny trails hanging from my lips.
I attempted to restrain the inevitable second round.
The cars hummed around me at 60mph, as I merged left. I imagined my will-power—always one to disappoint—could hold down the churning mix. Perhaps I could even get to the store, wipe off my face, dab water on my dress, and bury this memory in a grave of denial.
Instead, frantically realizing my body was about to eject more putrid slop, I veered back towards the off-ramp. I groped around for a receptacle other than my lap.
The next heave plopped onto my leggings. Rivulets of tears and snot clung to my nose and lips.
Stopped at the light, a final heave produces the remaining contents of my stomach. I instinctively moved my left hand to catch the last chunks erupt from my guts. My palm is now immobile, perhaps in shock, holding aloft the results of a lifetime made up of poor decisions.
Unable to decide on an appropriate course of action. (I was never taught in Driver’s-Ed the proper protocol for simultaneously operating a motor vehicle and vomiting.) I glance at my face in the rear view mirror. The brown flecked strings of vomit and snot are unmistakeable.
When I look up, he’s standing on the corner, flying a sign. His deep tan is actually a fine layer of dirt and dead skin. Our eyes meet. The embarrassment at my current state, coupled with the handful of vomit clearly visible in my raised palm, flushes my pallid face.
He doesn’t break eye contact. Whether shocked into catatonia by my predicament, inured to disgusting bodily functions, or empathically understanding my plight, I do not know.
I wipe my hand on my dress. A layer of syrupy sickness is still on my skin as the light turns green. I pull a Uy and head for home. As I drive, I run my hand along the side of my seat to absorb the remnants. It will dry a chalky, brown.
Parked and alone with the smell of humiliation, bile, and kratom. Trepidation rushes in as I run from the car into the apartment—thankful none of my neighbors are outside to stand witness.
I strip off the dress and leggings in the bathroom, then wash my face and brush my teeth. Tears have smeared my eyeliner and mascara. I rub it off with a hand towel and study my reflection. My body glowing with that pallid, corpse-like complexion, only broken by the purple twisting scar in the crook of my left arm, emptied of all its contents at 11am on a Tuesday.
