Twenty six years old and fumbling – delicately at first, but with gathering passion – at black lace lingerie, beneath which lies an evasive secret so often denied him. He is not himself, and his body feels awkward and unfamiliar as it clashes with hers upon the sheets, which are drawn down to the end of the bed as if to say: this is not a secret act.
He is certain then, as their bodies collide in ska-like rhythms, that this moment does not belong to him, and neither to her, but to a mutual universal biology that demands such collisions of them. He cannot tell her he loves her because he does not, and they will awaken together only once. With this, he comes – vilely, cheaply – to conclusion, heart racing, breath short, and a terrible reality descends. How many others just like him? How many human beings briefly elevated by the hands of strangers as the ice gets thinner underneath them?
The girl disappears into the bathroom, and, stretched out in the darkness, he realises that their connection is not lost because it had never really existed. It is difficult to imagine that just a few hours previously both of them had wanted this. Still drunk (but lacking now any degree of charm) he pulls up the sheets, turns onto his side, and slips into unconsciousness with one final thought:
She will never know how little this means.
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