I’ve been betrayed by pasta carbonara.

I sit back on my heels, trying not to tip over and smack my head on the bathroom wall or, worse, the rim of the green ceramic toilet in front of me. Dean Martin’s voice wafts through the speakers, an embarrassing reminder of where I am—the bathroom of a fast-casual Italian restaurant on the Lower East Side. And I just puked my guts out in their toilet like a frat boy. I wipe my chin and press the flush tab, wincing at the seasick feeling of the room rocking back and forth.

I lied before. It’s not really the pasta’s fault. It was the wine. It was the two and a half bottles of Chianti I slurped back like one of the Real Housewives. Who on earth told me I could afford that? One single glance at my bank account would make me vomit again, I’m sure.

I squeeze my eyes closed and cradle my head in my hands. It’s like my stomach knew to expel any evidence of tonight’s disaster from my body.

I’m assuming my date left hours ago. I don’t really know. I’ve already blocked his number. We were supposed to meet at a cocktail bar across the street called Rosencrantz & Guildenstern, where customers learn how to make personalized signature cocktails and sample them all night. Their Instagram advertises maple Manhattans with ­bourbon-soaked cherries, mezcal palomas with charred grapefruit wedges, and matcha martinis with mango honey. In other words, if you’re like me and you have the anxiety of an entire therapy waiting room, it’s the perfect spot for a first date. You can dodge eye contact and focus on the ­bartender-slash-instructor, and then get drunk and forget about it in the morning.