When Amy Styles eyes opened, they were surprisingly clear considering how badly her head throbbed. Her bedroom was filled with daylight and she could hear a gentle sprinkling rain tapping softly against the window panes and on the roof. Lifting her head off the deep crater imbedded in her pillow, she focused her emerald green eyes at the digital clock on the bedside table; it read 3:02 pm. For a brief second, her mind and body flooded with panic: she was late for work again! But then the runners of her memory burst through the dreary hang over fog and reminded her that she had been suspended. Rolling over on her back, Amy stared at the ceiling and rubbed her temples. It was then that she realized her arms were still covered with sleeves. Glancing down over her body, she found that she was still completely dressed, right down to her cowboy boots, in the clothes she'd worn all day yesterday and last night. Resting the back of her hand on her forehead, Amy shut her eyes and her mind swirled. She had no idea how she had gotten home. The last thing she could recall was Erin, the knockout bartender at O'Malley's, standing over her and two other figures lifting her up. She could hear Erin's voice and smell her perfume, and then nothing. Suddenly Amy's memory fired another message through the fog and it whispered one word:
Miranda.
Amy's heart skipped a beat, her breath caught in her throat and a weak smile filled her lips as images of the mysterious and gorgeous brunette who had captivated her mind and had left her body in a pile of spent sexual putty on O'Malley's bathroom floor flooded into her mind. Amy swung herself out of bed and let her legs drop to the floor. Her boots clicked on the hardwood. Though she felt physically weak and drained, the standard morning ache of her body was far less brutal than she had anticipated. Instead, she felt her body tingling from top to bottom and the only thing that was truly aching, other than her head, was her pussy. The little girl had gotten herself one hell of a long overdue workout. Amy sat motionless for a moment and let herself stabilize; her stomach was queasy, as per usual, and the room spun. Still, Amy had to admit that she didn't feel near as bad as she should considering how much she'd drank. Perhaps after the release of so many dormant sexual hormones and the orgasm that tore through her like a category five hurricane, her body was somewhat empowered to fend off the effects of heavy alcohol consumption. Perhaps great sex was the answer to her drinking problem. Still, she felt like hammered whale shit and once she teetered into the bathroom and surveyed the external in the mirror, she looked like it too.
Amy stripped out of her clothes and sat down for her morning call of nature, which was somewhat difficult considering her memory was now bombarding her with sizzling hot recollections of her passionate sexual ravaging at the hands of mysterious Miranda. Amy's body was flooding with a wave of lustful heat and she eyed the shower stall with an intense, wanting stare. Suddenly her mind turned into an episode of Deadliest Catch and the awful realization washed over her like the pounding, frigid waves of the Bering Sea; Miranda had vanished almost as mystically as she had appeared and left Amy no way of contacting her. As her body instantly went cold, Amy felt her heart plunge like a muddy cinder block into the pit of her stomach and she half expected to hear it splash into the toilet bowl as it fell out of her body. Before she even truly realized it, Amy's throat tightened like a vice grip and tears were streaming down her cheeks. Amy had had countless one night stands with more women than she cared to admit in her lifetime, but had never been left feeling so lost and broken like this. The only time she had felt this much despair and hopelessness was when Susan had left her. Amy's bladder instantly opened like a valve on Hoover Dam and she pissed like a race horse while she cried like a baby.
Amy finished her call to nature then stuck her head under the shower, dousing her scraggly long auburn hair. The icy cold water helped to clear her head but did little to help her understand why she was so distraught. Amy half-ass dried her hair with a damp towel and slipped on the robe that hung behind the bathroom door. The robe was light silk, dark purple in color and fell several inches above her knee; a long ago birthday gift from Susan. Amy shuffled slowly to the kitchen, dragging her suddenly very heavy bare feet across the floor. Amy opened the fridge and took out two of the three contents inside - a gallon of orange juice and a half full bottle of Absolut Mandarin; the third content was a bottle of Absolut Citron. Taking a plastic Seattle Seahawks tumbler from the top of the towering stack of rank dishes in the sink, Amy filled it a third with orange juice and the rest with the orange flavored vodka. Fuck it, she thought to herself and guzzled it down in a few gulps.
Amy's body spasmed and she lurched reflexively forward, dropping the tumbler and she seized the edge of the counter, driving her fingernails deep into the finish. Hacking and gagging on double spent phlegm and straining every responsive muscle with all her might against her body's objection, Amy clinched her watering eyes closed and clamped her mouth tightly shut as she battled to keep her breakfast of champions down. Her body shuddered violently and chills raced up her spine. Finally, it passed and Amy exhaled a deep, vomit flavored breath.
"Jesus Christ!" She muttered.
Amy shook her head and eased herself back up into an erect position, cautiously releasing her grip on the counter. Steadying herself now, she exhaled again and took a slug directly from the bottle of Mandarin. Amy cringed slightly as the vodka rushed down her raw throat. She rubbed her hand over her eyes, taking quick and shallow breaths. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do? She wondered. I got suspended yesterday. Wait, let's get real okay? I got fucking fired! The next natural step was to get shitfaced drunk, which I did. Now that has passed and here I am the day after. Now I've got to figure out what to do with the rest of my fucking life. Oh, who the fuck cares? Amy swallowed more vodka and cringed as it went down. Shuffling now toward the kitchen table which was cluttered with empty pizza boxes, half eaten cartons of Chinese takeout, empty beer cans, liquor bottles, soda cans, newspapers, magazines, unopened mail and numerous pieces of other garbage, Amy looked beyond it and gazed out the bay window into her next door neighbor's backyard. Two small children, a little boy of about two and a little girl of four or five, were chasing a gray Scottish terrier around the lush green yard. A weak smile filled Amy's lips and tears welled in her eyes. Amy adored children and had always wanted at least six or seven of her own. She wanted a family; a real family. A family like the Bradford's from the 70s TV series Eight is Enough. Fuck the Brady Bunch though. At least a family like the Bradford's was plausible and could handle a lesbian mother and stepmother. The Brady's were fucking aliens who would probably have her burned at the stake. Amy stared aimlessly at the children and the dog for what seemed like days and her heart ached the entire time. Her musing was suddenly interrupted by the doorbell. Amy set the bottle down and trudged begrudgingly to the front door.
The view out Amy's front door and off her tiny square front porch was one that most people would kill for; especially those who were fans of Frasier. Amy's one story, two bedroom, 1300 square foot house sat on a hill, probably not two full miles from the downtown skyline and just a hair over a mile from Seattle Center where the Space Needle and several other popular tourist attractions of the emerald city were located. She had bought the house thirteen years ago and for the first four years, would start her day seated on her small front porch with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Since she'd quit smoking nine years ago, Amy now sat on the inside window sill of the front bay window in the mornings to drink her coffee. As Amy swung the front door open, she was nearly shocked out of her skin as forty-eight breathtaking, long-stemmed roses: twelve red, twelve yellow, twelve white and twelve pink, arranged beautifully in an enormous crystal vase, where staring Amy in the glazed and dazed face. The arrangement was so large that Amy could only see the tips of the deliveryman's fingers clutching the sides of the vase and he seemed to be struggling under the weight. Amy gasped, slapped her hand over her mouth and her eyes bulged as she beheld the gorgeous flowers.
"Ms. Amy Styles?" A shaky male voice strained from behind the flowers.
"Uh-huh." Amy replied, her voice muffled by her hand.
"I'm Kevin from Emerald City Florist. These are for you." He said, thrusting the arrangement toward her.
"For me?" She asked.
Amy dropped her hand from over her mouth to her chest and patted it just above her thundering heart as she stared in bewilderment with watery eyes.
"Yes, ma'am." He replied, straining.
