blurred sobriety.

it was pretty much that time of the night.
I was the last sober person left, reading Bukowski on the couch. All the others had fled hours earlier, patted their slurring friends on the back and went home to TV or sleep or whatever, pretty much anything ends up being better than here. Sober people at these kind of parties always end up doing the same thing; hands folded sitting on some random chair while the rest of the party stumbles in circles and pretends their not as fucked up as they really are. They make their laps, looking for that bottle of booze or that one girl or just trying to look busy, occasionally stopping in to tell you something insignificant and more often than not incoherent.

Somebody had poured out a little bottle of pills on the table, a scattering of little white circles lying atop the thin film of beer. Every few minutes a different person would mosey in, see the pills unattended and quickly swig one down with their Keystone, trying their best to be inconspicuous as they walked out. Maybe five people had done this before one guy finally saw me in the corner of the couch.
"Hey man, are these yours?"
I shook my head and told him I didn't know who's they were.
"Well, what are they?"
I didn't have any idea and I told him so. He shrugged his shoulders, threw back his head and two of the little white discs disappeared forever. I wondered what I'd tell the paramedics. Pretty soon all the pills were gone, nothing left but a little white dust running down the surface of the river of beer.