One Night Stand

          Sunlight comes creeping in, illuminating our skin with its golden glow. His one arm is flung back like he has been falling backwards in his sleep, but the other hand still clutches mine.

           “Stay” he’d said. “I don’t want to be alone. You may just be my good luck charm, my secret remedy.”

          “Ok” 
           
           It had been simple really. There was something about him, some ‘boy’s don’t cry’ quality that spoke to me. We didn’t have sex. We lay next to each other and talked, held hands. As the night turned to dawn we ran out of words and each drifted into sleep. 

           I don’t usually do this, go back from the club with strangers. I wonder if I should leave before he wakes? I am expected at Nan’s for Sunday lunch. I wonder where the bus stop is. I scan the apartment . In the cold light of day it seems tired. There is a potted orchid on the window still in its cellophane, a single stalk rising from a moss bed, its flowers wilted to waxy beige. A table sits in the middle of the room, a chipped mug to one side next to an ash tray and an ornate wooden box. An assortment of cushions lie around it on the floor, looking lost without a sofa. The stains speak of a long history which I am glad not to have been part of. No stereo, no TV.

There is a sudden scrabbling and growling outside in the corridor.

“Who let the dog’s out?”

“Hello,” I say. “Sounds like the dogs of hell.”

“I need a piss.” ‘Morning to you too, I think, the charm of the golden morning waning fast.

          He disappears. What ever magic had been conjured last night that made me think I wanted to stay has evaporated. I get up and look for my jacket. I find it discarded on the floor. I really need a glass of water, but when I get to the kitchen area the grime is so thick I decide I can wait. I feel I ought to say goodbye and hover in the middle of the room waiting for him to finish in the bathroom. I am intrigued by the ornate box on the table and lift the lid to find a pouch of tobacco, rizzlers and a wad of hash. “That’s illegal” shouts my mothers voice in my head, all judgemental.

“Ok, I’m off then” I shout.

His disembodied voice floats out from behind a closed door:

“Baby, if these wings could fly…”

         His speech sounds slurred and then there is a noise like he has fallen.

“You ok?” There’s no response. I knock then push open the bathroom door and find him slumped on the floor, a tourniquet cinched round his arm, a syringe still protruding from his vein. His eyelids flutter a pulse. I pull the needle from his arm putting it in the sink and reach fro my phone.

“Ambulance please,” I say. I know there can be no remedy for this.