Rugrats

     I woke up this morning with rug burns on my knees and elbows.  The skin around my lips smelled like sex and was rubbed raw by facial hair, and my neck was swollen in little circles of broken blood vessels.   The sun was not up yet, but I couldn't go back to sleep.  My head was throbbing and I needed water.  I searched for my pants and underwear for a few minutes, growing frustrated I thought to myself, "where in the hell could he have thrown them?"  My underwear was behind my pillows and my pants behind my door.

     I was chugging my fourth glass of water on my way back to my room when I noticed something in the entrance of the living room.  I stood still, clutching my water and looking at the evidence of my bad decision carved into the white carpet.  The street light's soft yellow glow leaked into the room, and in that light I could see where my fingers had dug into the carpet and pulled with them acrylic fibers, leaving in their wake shadows of our bodies rolling and clenching and clawing.  My brother and I used to make snow angels in our mother's carpet when we were young.  We used to write our names in it too.
       Last night I made sex angels.
     "To bad he's married," I said to the floor.
      With a defeated smile, I used my right foot to erase myself from the carpet and used another glass of   wine to erase myself.