Bubbling Over - Kate Bueler

Bubbling over. The bubbling over out of the champagne bottle is my favorite. As you try to open it-it sometimes takes a while then it does open and all the tiny bubbles drift, push, zig zag to the surface of the lake of love. The bottle of champagne as I open in among my roommates- come on Kate open it- you can do it- it’s taking longer than usual. Usual. So I keep trying until. That welcomed pop bursting your ears into the celebration of drinkable fireworks. And then the bubbling over. The bubbling over into the cup or my mouth or their mouths or on my hands. I love the sweetness of the bubbling over- the mistake so perfectly spilled tastes so good as the bubbles dissipate along your tongue, your mouth. You lick each one of your hands.

I was once reprimanded on New Years. Don’t touch me. He said. Don’t touch me with those champagne hands. It was midnight. We were surrounded by kisses and love and excitement bubbling over around us, fireworks of new beginnings of too much champagne or other recreational freedom. We stood in a line me, him, my best friend, and his old friend. His friend said what the fuck. What the fuck about what he said to me. And then kissed my best friend. In my excitement in my bubbling over-I smacked my lover on the lips and walked away. No one was going to stop me from bubbling over. No one ever has.

I want a man who wants me to touch him, him with or without champagne hands. I want a man that will let me touch him, no matter what has bubbled over on my hands. I want a man who wouldn’t mind if I spilt some of the champagne on him just for fun. This is what I thought. But said nothing. Instead I took up smoking again and drank champagne from the bottle and went to the store to get more tecate. That we hid upstairs in the bathroom-overly done modernly with the proper title of aquamarine and tub with jets and the cabinets just opaque enough is where we hid our beers. Bubbling over, bubbling over, I poured down my familiar escape down my throat again. He kept bringing people upstairs to blow lines. Lines of their celebration. Bubbling over into, into what the truth might be. Might be. I just kept drinking and smiling and looking pretty. Around the room, the house I had helped clean and decorate the balloons glistened and reminded me of the helium we had all sucked down earlier. Hello in a high pitch voice and the laughter. The bubbling over it was all bubbling over. Over it was. Or so I thought. So I thought. Because in the midst of champagne and tecate for her and alcohol and cocaine for him- I just wanted someone to touch and hold. He just wanted to escape. Escaped with both did. Did. Me as a drunk. Him as a drunk and cokehead. It all bubbled over that night. That night it did.