The last of them had gone, leaving behind stacks of empty cans, tipped over bottles, crumbled and crushed food in the rug. It had been a great night.
Martin flopped on the sofa, letting the plush, welcoming cushions absorb his weight. Casually, he used his left foot to push aside a few items from the corner of the cracked coffee table (the result of an impressive night of mock wrestling gone too far. Jacob still wore the battle scar near his eye), then put both feet, one over the other on the glass surface.
Head back, his brain swimming, he finally realized how much alcohol he’d consumed that evening.
Many of his friends had come. Some he had not expected to see. He thought of Odette, the way she’d lingered close to the kitchen, her hand clutching a plastic cup to her left shoulder, the coy smile as he approached, and her subtle look-away when she lightly touched his arm (which made his heart skip).
He ran his finger over his lips, pretending the salty residue was a remnant of her kiss. He would call her in the morning, at least text, tell her how happy he was she had come. If overcome by a sudden surge of bravery, he might even ask her out. Stranger things and all.
Various scenarios ran through his mind. He closed his eyes and let them go where they wanted. Imagination obliged. He was happy in his distraction. So much so, he failed to hear the door creak open, didn’t notice the sound of someone walking across the floor into the living room, failed to sense the shadow as it passed over his legs, up his body, until it finally stilled, resting patiently on his face.