flash fiction time again

as always, big-up to jj for setting us on the path.
before posting my attempt, i just want to say that when i went off to read all the flash fiction entries last week i was also going to read from the week before when i barely had enough time to write something myself and never had a chance to read others. the stuff from 2 weeks ago was amazing (and yes, each link i just gave also links to jj, which takes you to all the other entries from that week).

The champagne cork was on the floor and in her hand…
wait. that couldn’t be right.
she shifted and tried to refocus.
now the champagne cork was just on the floor and what was in her hand looked more like a very small stuffed mushroom. clearly the runt of the litter.
she tilted her head back slowly, after a faster false start that resulted in the floor swimming away from under her ass and bubbles emanating from her ears, and tossed the tiny mushroom at the back of her throat. and she only had to do it 3 times before she was actually able to catch and eat it; the 5-second-rule applies for each individually dropped item.
with the mushroom floating securely at the top of her oesophagus, absorbing some of the liquor, she thought she might try standing. maybe even finding (after remembering) whoever she’d arrived with. she figured a look at the night’s alcohol’s other imbibers would narrow down the possibilities.
but which was the best way up? lean over onto hands and knees, push up with the shoulders, use the curled-under-toes for leverage? those knee-high black-patent stilettoed catwoman boots might throw balance off enough to make that hard, and failing would mean smashing face-first onto the floor, which wasn’t looking too stable to start with.
maybe slouching there a little longer was the best immediate choice. rising could come shortly.
maybe a watch would help- timing out each activity seemed like a good way to motivate the actual action.
but a downward loop of the neck yielded no timepiece-sighting, so suddenly, using the momentum of that rebounding upswing seemed the new best idea, and she was soupily on her knees a few moments later.
a slow take of the room offered no familiar faces, but after a luxuriously indulgent blink, it looked like a brand new party and she saw bobo in a corner with what appeared to be a bobblehead doll tucked under his armpit.
she wobbled over and propped herself next to him and his ventriloquist’s puppet, leaned in a little to compete with the deodorant-sniffer, and tried to explain to bobo that it might be best that they leave, while she still could voluntarily. bobo, however, was not getting it, most likely because of his distracting attachment.
but it’s hard to be insistent when the wall lending you support isn’t holding its ground and you find yourself sinking to the level of the brass belt buckle of a cowboy wearing clown make-up.
she grabbed the bull by its horns, and felt the metal piece come loose in her hand. at least now bobo was paying attention to her untimely descent. she hoped her eyes were pleading her case as her mouth clearly couldn’t, and felt a wash of relief as good as the champagne had initially been when bobo finally noticed her condition, peeled the poodle off his leg and said,
“looks like it’s time to get you home, girl”, as he pulled her up and toward the door.

walk good.