We had every intention of going to yoga the next morning, but when I woke up I could barely master Standing Human much less Downward Dog. My head was throbbing, my hands and feet felt so dry I thought they'd crack, and my tongue felt like it didn't belong in my own mouth. It was too big, the wrong texture, heavy.
Red wine hangovers are worse than beer hangovers, better than tequila hangovers and equal to getting hit by a car. A smart car, which is not unlike getting run over by a scooter. It's not pleasant, but you'll survive.
I glanced over at Cayden and I squeezed my head between the heels of my hands in an attempt to make the pounding stop. He squinted against the sunlight coming in through the guest room windows and pulled a pillow over his face.
He grunted something into the pillow and I couldn't tell if they were words or sounds of dehydration. I wanted to ask if we'd switched tongues last night, because mine still didn't feel like my own. The thought of his tongue brought back flashes of our sexcapades from the night before and my cheeks grew hot. I stopped squeezing my head long enough to fan my face as fast as possible. A stomach full of wine, a head full of hammers and a prickling hot face can only mean one thing: we were about to see the wine again.
Coffee. I needed coffee. I'd already broken a best friend rule by having sex in their guest bed. I was not about to add "throwing up on the bedspread" to my Ooops, My Bad list.
"Coffee," I said, yanking the pillow off Cayden's face. He shielded the light with his giant hands and rolled onto his side toward me.
"Huh?" he said, peeking out at me.
When my two-syllables finally reached his brain where they were translated to a word with a meaning, he dropped his hands. He nodded faster than he should have and then assumed my aforementioned head-between-the-hands position.
I moved slowly as I pulled the covers off of us and dropped my feet to the floor. I stood as slowly as possibly to avoid the probable hangover head rush. My body temperature started returning to normal as the caffeine craving replaced the memories of last night's intertwined body parts.
Moments later, Cayden and I emerged from the stairwell in our matching OU sweatpants to find Ronnie sprawled out on the couch, a coffee mug cupped between his hands.
"Fresh coffee's in the pot. Motrin is on the table, next to the pastries," he said, assessing our disheveled appearance. "I'd say I'm as hungover as you two, but I think I'm still drunk."
Based on his sideways grin and bloodshot eyes, I had to agree with him.
"You better lock it up before the party tonight," I said. "You've got a lot more drinking to do."