Contemplating

I was sitting on the edge of the couch, bedsheet strangled in my grip, when the door opened.  My roommate, a friend from high school, stumbled in.

"Doing the laundry?" he asks, trying his best to maintain his balance with the door knob.

"Yeah," I reply, loosening my grip.  "I'm almost done."

"That's good, that's good."

His body, uneducated in the laws of gravity when he's drunk, crashed to the ground with a bang.  Instead of tears, a big hearty laugh escaped his mouth along with a follow-up belch.

"You should have came with us, man.  It was a blast," said my friend into the living room carpet.

"I'm just not a big drinker."  I folded up the bedsheet, trying my best to beat out the wrinkles I had made in it.

"You don't ever want to hang out anymore.  What's wrong with you?  Think you're too good for us?  Alcohol for idiots?"

"No, no.  I only enjoy good tasting alcohol.  I can't force myself to drink the hard stuff."

His eyes were able to navigate up to me, though they twitched with effort.

"Is something wrong?"

I looked down at the bedsheet in my lap, the wrinkles still there.

"Nah, everything is okay."  I didn't look up.

"Oh, that's good."  Instead of standing on his feet, he crawls like a baby toward his bedroom.  "I'm going to bed now, so see ya tomorrow."  My friend disappears into the doorway.

"Yeah…See you tomorrow."

I unfold the blanket and get back to what I was doing before the interruption.