She wakes up with the worst headache. Looks around. The house is a mess; every couch is filled with guys and girls; she herself slept awkwardly in a scruffy olivelike armchair. She lifts herself up, ready to stand from her bed, trips over something on the floor. It’s Bob, the world’s worst drunk. Not the frat boy type, neither alcoholic, but still, getting there. He’s the guy you call when you wanna party but don’t know who to bring to make it fun. ‘Clara!’, he squirms. She looks behind her shoulder to the piece of meat on the floor. Not much else comes out. Clara continues; she silently crawls over the floor, trying to find her way through a sea of bodies. Last night she has seen a coffee machine in the kitchen. This is the thing she needs to reach. In passing all bodies, she gets up from the wooden floor, and stands up. Clara sees the coffee machine; it’s right within her reach. Then – SPLAT – she trips; in one smooth moment she feels her ankle losing balance. ‘There you go’, a calm voice says behind her. She can recognize it. It’s Bob. From the corner of her eye she can see him standing with his belly out, watching her fall, with a half-empty beer in hand. She forgot Franky and John wired the place to the tee to try and see if they could hop over the wires one-leggedly to get to the kitchen without tripping. Her cheek hits the floor with one big hit. Awch. That hurts. Clara lies there for a while not able to move; Bob is watching; no one talks. In the far corner of the room Franky starts snoring.