Rebuilding Sabrina, part 11

I woke up hungover and with a furious headache, sprawled out on Sabrina’s couch. My mouth tasted of stale smoke and weed and alcohol.

I sat up, my head spinning. I reached out for a cigarette. The candles completely consumed, a lake of molten wax had spread on the coffee table, encasing my cigarettes, the overflowing ashtray, and an empty bottle of vodka.
I tore the packet open, pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. The warm smoke filled up my lungs, and my headache subsided.
I checked my watch. It was past eight.
The shower was going. The living room was a mess. Through the open door, Sabrina’s bedroom was a mess too.
I stretched, trying to work out the kinks in my back and shoulders. I closed my eyes, enjoying the rush of nicotine. I had vague memories of getting terminally stoned with Sabrina, mixing pot and vodka and driving ourselves stupid.
It had been fun.
Had we fucked, too? My memories were hazy, but I thought not. I was still dressed.
“Oh, look who’s back with the living!”
I turned and my brain did a backflip.

Sabrina was standing by the couch, wrapped in a white towel. Her curly hair was a heavy cascade of deep burgundy, shot through with copper highlights. She had a saucy smile on her puffy cocksucker lips as she sat by my side. The towel clung to her massive boobs, leaving a hint of dark pink aureoles, and barely covered her twat.
She picked the cigarette from my lips and took a hard hit, her eyelids fluttering. Then she put the cigarette back in my open mouth, and chuckled, exhaling through her nostrils.
Her boobs had obviously grown.
“See anything you like?” she asked.
I looked up.
“Yeah,” she smiled wickedly, “my eyes are up here. But thanks for the appreciation.”
“What the hell—?” I asked, my mind raced.
She laughed, and leaned back into the couch. The towel slipped, exposing a dark nipple, stiff and long like a pencil eraser. “Still a little baked?” she asked.
I excused myself and went to the bathroom.
The room was a mess like the rest of the apartment. Wet towels piled up on the floor, and overflowing laundry basket, a dozen bottles and jars crowding around the sink. I sat on the toilet, thinking furiously.
I knew Sabrina had gone red about ten years ago, more or less at the same time she had her boobs improved by a plastic surgeon she was banging at the time.
But I also knew it was not so.
My head hurt as conflicting memories overlapped.
Sabrina appearing and disappearing in my life, as she crawled from a trainwreck of a relationship to another. But also me and Sabrina spending a lot of time together, partying hard, working the models circuit, sharing make up, clothes, lovers, drugs. Sabrina uptight and miserable, in her baggy sweater. Sabrina coked-up and out of control, flashing her boobs to the people on the street through the sun roof of a limousine in Las Vegas. Sabrina giving me head, while Dan took her from behind, during that long weekend back when we had dropped out of college.
It was like waking suddenly from a dream, the sense of disorientation as reality and dream collide, the mind trying to reconcile them.
“Oh, fuck.”
The affirmation thing had worked.
The shit about the quantum whatever and the power of the mind over the universe was not shit after all.
We had changed the past.
I stood and went to the mirror over the sink.
I was still me. Straight black hair, the usual face, the usual eyes, the usual mouth. Images of me sucking on Sabrina’s breasts flashed in my memory. I leered at myself in the mirror. What the hell.
I went back to the parlor.
Sabrina sat on the couch. She had changed into a pair of very tight jeans and a stretch top that left very little to the imagination. She was rolling a joint with precise, well-experienced moves.
“The affirmations worked,” I said.
“Yeah,” she answered, patting the seat by her side. I sat there, our hips touching. “I never felt better,” she said. She caressed her tit, and shivered.
She lit the joint and took a long drag, then passed it to me. I sucked on it like my life depended on it.
Thick, creamy smoke poured out of her mouth.
“It’s all like a dream, right?” she asked. “My other life, I sort of remember it, but it’s fading.”
She took the spliff from my fingers and took another hit. “And this helps make it go faster,” she grinned.
I exhaled, the pot softening the violence of the conflicting images in my mind.
“What now?” I asked.
I had been in control, I remembered that. But I was not anymore. I was letting the pot do the thinking, it was fine like that.
“We’re seeing my sister for lunch,” she said. “Then we go pick up Chris at the airport.”
I filled myself up with smoke again.
“Chris?” I asked drunkenly.
Sabrina laughed. “Chris. Your daughter, silly!”