30-ish (Ages of David, Part 6 of 8)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Before I even open my eyes I’m wishing I was still asleep.  There’s a burn in my brain and an acidy fire in my gut.  It feels like my memories are combusting.  My mouth is heavily dry, my tongue scuzzily fuzzed over.  I really need to pee.  Slowly I peel my eyelids open, the summer’s morning light doesn’t sting but it does all look out of focus.  There’s a half empty bottle of California rose on the bedside table, which is surprising, not least because I don’t have a bedside table.  It takes the realisation that the pillow is a paunchy yellow to fully comprehend that this, probably, isn’t my bed.

Unsurprisingly, on that basis, I am not alone, but the heavy breathing suggests that I am the only one in the waking world.  I slip out from under the covers, relieved to see I am at least wearing boxers, and go in search of a bathroom.  I’m lucky; it’s directly opposite the bedroom, across the hall, the door ajar.  The stinking wine heavy piss is long and, eventually, a relief.  There’s no toilet paper.  Afterwards I splash some water on my face, but I can’t get it to run cold.  The clammy warmness doesn’t alleviate my symptoms.

I go in search of a glass, wandering through the flat in just my underwear.  I find the kitchen and pour myself some more lukewarm water, glugging back the whole glass in one and refilling.  My mouth feels less rancid.  Just.  I take my water to the window.  We’re high.  Maybe the sixth floor.  The flat looks out on the greyed out grass of a communal area and other blocks smudged between the raised train tracks.  I’m not entirely sure where I am.  South of the river, I think.  There was definitely a bus ride.

I don’t think it is as bad as it could be, but I can’t rightly remember.  There’s another two empty rose bottles on the table.  There are also a pair of man’s trainers which aren’t mine.  Momentarily I panic that it may be a boyfriend, but then I remember mention of a flatmate.  Less dangerous, but no doubt equally less keen to discover me, without clothes, early in the morning.

How early, I wonder and glance at the clock on the cooker.  It says 16.32.  It can’t be afternoon, I think.  It’s too quiet. 

I creep back into the room.  On the bedside table is my watch, next to an empty wineglass.  Just after six.  I get back into the bed, feeling too dreadful to contemplate anything else.  The girl rolls off her back, onto her side and I look at her face and try to remember.  Her hair smells of cigarettes.  I turn my face to the ceiling.  In the corner, by the window, there is a black patch of mould.  The sheets feel greasy.  What, I think, do I do now?

Go to sleep, my body answers for me, encouraging my eyes to close.

‘That was a narrow escape,’ she says.  I don’t reply, unsure what to say.  Was it?  I’m not sure I know the answer.  ‘I mean, this could be really awkward right now.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Well, goodbye then.’

‘Oh.’  I open my eyes and sit back up.  ‘Goodbye, I guess.’

I get dressed quickly, deciding as I do that this suit has definitely seen better days.  I pause at the door, wanting to find some witty respite or at least some way for this not to be quite so humiliating.  I can’t think of anything so I leave.

‘See you,’ comes the voice along the corridor.

Downstairs, passing through the door that doesn’t securely shut, I suddenly remember arriving via a hole in the fence by the road rather than through the estate.  I find the gap and squeeze through it, jumping down the last few feet to the pavement making a passing dog walker jump.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter but he just scowls.

I’m still not sure where I am, but start walking anyway.  The morning is already warm and I feel empty, deflated of food and energy, but with an empty walk is what I must do.  After a while I find a road I recognise, round the back of the refuse centre you pass on the train between New Cross and London Bridge.  The faint waft of composting rubbish floats on the air.

This is not exactly my finest hour, but by the time I have arrived home I am at least starting to feel human again, and there is something from all the tumbled up emotions that I can feed off.  I shower, make myself two sausage sandwiches with brown sauce and a pot of coffee and go to work, funnelling all the weirdness into words on the page.  Several hours of writing flow effortlessly, the click-clack of the keyboard creating a stomach settling rhythm.

Early in the afternoon she texts me.  Do I want to meet for a drink later?   I politely decline.  Her response is furious and so I keep on typing.