Sour

I had a thought and I opened my mouth to speak about it. And I guess I must have taken in too much air (you know how that goes) because next thing I know, I’m choking violently on my own spit, trying desparately to gain control of my airway so I can finish saying what I never even started. It’s kind of pathetic how badly my throat was burning by that point and the tears were uncalled for and embarassing so I stood up and stumbled to the bathroom, hacking into my shirtsleeve. I closed the door and leaned over the pristine petite porcelian sink (the host, dear friend of mine, was into the whole Parisian chique look). I tried deep breathing and for a moment it did seem to calm me down but all the coughing must have set off a full body reaction because before I could really prepare, my stomach was heaving. A deep, full belly squeeze possessed me and I lunged for the toilet, in all its pink fluffy glory. I don’t recall how long I heaved, more than a couple times but not so many that I had time to really think, then I was finally dispelling whatever had a hold on me. I went along with it, trying to relax as much as one can in such a situation and just waited for my body to calm. I felt spent but slightly more normal so I set about washing my face and hands, taking in huge lungfuls of air. Finally satisfied with my composure, I turned to take a curious peak (you can’t deny that knowing what comes out of the body is somehow vital information) into the toilet before flushing. I looked down and while I was surprised, I can’t say I was stunned, to see floating in the murky putrid liquid, your name.