I awake in a dark and smokey room. I'm on the floor, lying on what appears to be the cushions from the sofa I could have sworn I fell asleep on last night with my body half covered by an old sleeping bag, which, if it had the means, could recite many more similar awakenings. The light streaming in through the industrial blinds of a living/kitchen/diner in a small male-inhabited flat burn and the thumping pain in my head only reminds me of my dreadful hangover from the night before.
My senses start to fade in, like the mornings light through ill-chosen blinds, and I can hear my own breathing; smell the shame of stale wine and half-smoked cigarettes in my matted hair that's survived on dry shampoo for the past two days. I can feel the covers just about covering the dignity of my naked body...
Naked body?
I'm suddenly aware of the person next to me. I can hear his breathing, as deep as the ocean and as peaceful a low tide. The covers rise and fall in his splendor and I dispute whether I should sneak away without looking back.
They say curiosity kills the cat and, like a cold, dead cat, roll over on my front and turn my head on the pillow to inspect another nights forgotten handy-work.
The man lying next to me is facing me, his broad shoulders towering far above my own and his dark quiffed hair only slightly ruffled in comparison to my neglected scarecrow's 'do'. His equally dark features are at least recognizable, but still a blurry haze from the start of the night, which inevitably ended now. He's clean shaven; his eyebrows and hair took frequently tamed and his flawless skin seems unaffected by his inexcusable on-coming hangover. The covers only just reach past his stomach and I vaguely remembered a conversation about him playing rugby. Or was it football? Maybe that was just my imagination.
I groaned with a hint of regret measured up next to the pain of my bodies poison consumption. He stirs gently in his sleep, scrunching his face like a little boy being woken by his mother before school. I hold my breath, begging he'd fall back to sleep so I could run off to the bedroom down the hall where I can remember my friend is staying and hope that she isn't still enjoying her nights catch. That much I can remember; this gentleman's name I cannot.
Opening his eyes after a short while I see a startle in his eyes, that I can relate to my early shock of finding him next to me. However, he soon smiles and appears to find the whole situation somewhat expected.
"Hello." I thought I'd start formal, it seems appropriate seeing as I don't actually know the man as far as my memory allows.
"Morning..." He replies, squinting his eyes to protect his aching brain from the ever increasing light from the window above.
"Are you clothed by any chance?" The pain and frustration of not knowing eradicated my subtlety - this is how this conversation is going to to go and it seems to confuse my new 'friend' but he smiles anyway.
"Of course not" he pauses to peek under the sleeping bag "and neither are you."
"Yes, that I am aware of." He laughs a morning-style, deep, croaky chuckle.
I bury my head in the pillow, murmuring words that don't quite make sense: "Urg! Again?!" I whine to myself more than my companion but he laughs regardless; apparently I'm amusing in the morning. His face falls now and he adopts and more serious tone, "You don't remember?"
"Yeah, this is the face of someone who remembers everything" I sarcastically spit in his direction. I'm not used to interaction in the morning; I've never been fond of sleepovers, but at least I have time to prepare a bright a chirpy persona, unlike falling into sleeping bag with Mr. Smith. I'm starting to get irritated by his amusement at my anguish.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were so drunk."
"I'm a very persuasive drunk" I manage a small smile in his direction, but realize that humor is my better option, "I'm also a slutty drunk so I suppose the fault is on me." He laughs, finally.
"You look..." He starts.
"A mess? Not as hot as you remember?" I begin to reel off statements I've heard uttered in passed experiences. I don't make a habit of it, but it seems to make a habit of me. Drunken blunders that is.
"Pretty" he finishes and I look at him for the first time since he woke up. He's lying on his back now, looking up at me leaning on my elbows in an attempt to appear more awake.
I soften my tone "Thank you" creeps out from behind my almost smiling, dried-out lips as a name springs to mind. I giggle and relax in the knowledge that I don't have to survive the rest of the morning pretending to know this mans name.
"And I suppose you're Ollie?"
"Oliver." He holds out his hand to shake and I adjust myself on one elbow and softly place my other hand in his.
"Nice to meet you. Again" I joke
"Again" he repeats and we both laugh. He kisses my forehead as I bow forwards and decide that this is definitely one of my better mornings after.
"So, Oliver, would you like a cup of tea?"
I may never meet this boy again, but at least I'll forever remember how many sugars he takes.
My senses start to fade in, like the mornings light through ill-chosen blinds, and I can hear my own breathing; smell the shame of stale wine and half-smoked cigarettes in my matted hair that's survived on dry shampoo for the past two days. I can feel the covers just about covering the dignity of my naked body...
Naked body?
I'm suddenly aware of the person next to me. I can hear his breathing, as deep as the ocean and as peaceful a low tide. The covers rise and fall in his splendor and I dispute whether I should sneak away without looking back.
They say curiosity kills the cat and, like a cold, dead cat, roll over on my front and turn my head on the pillow to inspect another nights forgotten handy-work.
The man lying next to me is facing me, his broad shoulders towering far above my own and his dark quiffed hair only slightly ruffled in comparison to my neglected scarecrow's 'do'. His equally dark features are at least recognizable, but still a blurry haze from the start of the night, which inevitably ended now. He's clean shaven; his eyebrows and hair took frequently tamed and his flawless skin seems unaffected by his inexcusable on-coming hangover. The covers only just reach past his stomach and I vaguely remembered a conversation about him playing rugby. Or was it football? Maybe that was just my imagination.
I groaned with a hint of regret measured up next to the pain of my bodies poison consumption. He stirs gently in his sleep, scrunching his face like a little boy being woken by his mother before school. I hold my breath, begging he'd fall back to sleep so I could run off to the bedroom down the hall where I can remember my friend is staying and hope that she isn't still enjoying her nights catch. That much I can remember; this gentleman's name I cannot.
Opening his eyes after a short while I see a startle in his eyes, that I can relate to my early shock of finding him next to me. However, he soon smiles and appears to find the whole situation somewhat expected.
"Hello." I thought I'd start formal, it seems appropriate seeing as I don't actually know the man as far as my memory allows.
"Morning..." He replies, squinting his eyes to protect his aching brain from the ever increasing light from the window above.
"Are you clothed by any chance?" The pain and frustration of not knowing eradicated my subtlety - this is how this conversation is going to to go and it seems to confuse my new 'friend' but he smiles anyway.
"Of course not" he pauses to peek under the sleeping bag "and neither are you."
"Yes, that I am aware of." He laughs a morning-style, deep, croaky chuckle.
I bury my head in the pillow, murmuring words that don't quite make sense: "Urg! Again?!" I whine to myself more than my companion but he laughs regardless; apparently I'm amusing in the morning. His face falls now and he adopts and more serious tone, "You don't remember?"
"Yeah, this is the face of someone who remembers everything" I sarcastically spit in his direction. I'm not used to interaction in the morning; I've never been fond of sleepovers, but at least I have time to prepare a bright a chirpy persona, unlike falling into sleeping bag with Mr. Smith. I'm starting to get irritated by his amusement at my anguish.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were so drunk."
"I'm a very persuasive drunk" I manage a small smile in his direction, but realize that humor is my better option, "I'm also a slutty drunk so I suppose the fault is on me." He laughs, finally.
"You look..." He starts.
"A mess? Not as hot as you remember?" I begin to reel off statements I've heard uttered in passed experiences. I don't make a habit of it, but it seems to make a habit of me. Drunken blunders that is.
"Pretty" he finishes and I look at him for the first time since he woke up. He's lying on his back now, looking up at me leaning on my elbows in an attempt to appear more awake.
I soften my tone "Thank you" creeps out from behind my almost smiling, dried-out lips as a name springs to mind. I giggle and relax in the knowledge that I don't have to survive the rest of the morning pretending to know this mans name.
"And I suppose you're Ollie?"
"Oliver." He holds out his hand to shake and I adjust myself on one elbow and softly place my other hand in his.
"Nice to meet you. Again" I joke
"Again" he repeats and we both laugh. He kisses my forehead as I bow forwards and decide that this is definitely one of my better mornings after.
"So, Oliver, would you like a cup of tea?"
I may never meet this boy again, but at least I'll forever remember how many sugars he takes.
