Yawned and ambled over to the washbasin. The radio has moved onto another number now, which isn't half-bad, really. Cock a snook at my reflection in the mirror, and remember the fun dancing last night with the little savage. Wild one. Not the savage: me, me, all me.
Brushed teeth with zeal. Funny world, this. Funny teeth, though perfect white and rounded. Cliched little pearls I have. Cliched and egoistic like hell. Like you. Like you telling me how you want to pinch my nose.
Stopped brushing and stared at mirror. Mirror edged with blue plastic. Needs to be cleaned really, but who gives a damn. Damn. Did we talk last night? But we couldn't. I was dancing with the savage. Wild one. Me, not her. Seems all deliciously hazy. Mexican shots, politely called teqilas, and brown little shooters, ecstatically called after-eights. And your voice whispering in my ear about tall towers and fancy flowers and lovely lies and terrible truths. I love you, you said. And I snorted.
Not very romantic, of course. But I snort. Possible?
Of course not. I danced last night. With the savage. Wild one. Not her: me.
So I brushed again. Gargled. Rinsed. Hollered to flatmate to get her ass up. Work, work, work. Both of us are lazy bums. We hate going to work. I think we hate working. Summer flies and no ants at all, in us. Lazy flowers and blue checked curtains and Don Williams singing a racy song in a country voice. Perfect day to hop onto the balustrade and get the washed clothes down. The iron-lady will come soon and take them away. She'll listen to Williams croon too.
Now Williams is gone, and it's a Rhinestone Cowboy.
But did you call?
So, I throw away the clothes on the floor (the maid will whine when she finds out I did that, but who gives a damn, really) and pick up the phone.
Punched through to Call History on the cell phone. A familiar number. Smile. Laugh. It wasn't a dream after all. Hi love. Sleepy here. I love you. I miss you. Snort. Snort.
And the world just got a bit sunnier. Must be the blue checked curtains.