We are staggering around Boston, pretty much aimlessly. Two are making out at every possible opportunity. Two are flirting, and they like each other, but she has a boyfriend. One is screaming her secret at the top of her lungs, floating along, happy to lose herself. One is walking by himself for the most part, not drinking but only because of wrestling. And I am the sober friend.
Drunk off of vodka and mountain dew, people are saying things they wouldn't, then subsequently begging the others not to remember it in the morning. They are laughing and crying and begging me to let them have more, though they already had too much.
I should have brought my gloves, for my fingers are freezing as I am texting her mom from her phone since she sounds drunk, and doesn't want her to know.
I apologize to the passerby for the loudness of the group.
I wonder if maybe this night would have been more fun if I had some of the mountain dew. I realize I know for sure that's probably the case.
But I'm scared of not being the sober friend. I'm scared of saying things I don't want to. I'm scared of not being in control. I'm scared for my friends without someone to watch out. I'm scared I'll like it too much.
So I'm the sober friend, and probably always will be.
I contemplate this on the bus, as everyone is coming to their senses, as I worry about getting home on time, worry about worrying too much, worry about what people said when their brain didn't produce the filter it usually did.
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