Bubble Toes

The carpet smells like ass. I am lying face down, and the carpet smells like ass. But I'm too tired to mind it. I close my eyes and pray that the charcoal gray and black stripes will blend with me and swallow me whole. Voices rehearse their lines, footsteps reverberate against my skull.
I close my eyes and the floor becomes grass, the air becomes heavy with sweet acoustic hymns. It courses through my ears and down my throat, and I am a year younger and 10 pounds thinner. In the tiny space of a cramped theatre, I have lost myself.
I roll to my side. The sky is charcoal gray. The teacups are lined with black, and I am covered in daisy petals. Familiar voices are flowing in and out of range, and Jack Johnson is reverberating against my chest.
To my left is an ocean of green, to my right is an ocean of blue. And everything I could ever want has been gathered on a blanket in between. Time passes, and I laugh too hard and I cry too hard and I am right here, right now, hidden in time where no one can find me.
I stand up and shake the petals out of my hair. Everyone hugs and sings and spins in circles and we eat too much and drink too much. It is my birthday.
It's dark. It's cold. It's raining. I'm wet. Everyone is soaking wet. We've all gathered under a gazebo and are huddling for warmth. My arms and legs are tangled in embrace, but my heart is somewhere else.
My phone reverberates against my chest. Missed call, October 15th, 2:48 pm. I stand up, take my place, and wait for my cue.
I lean down and sniff my shirt. I smell like ass now, too.