If he left the victrola alone, he would have died. It was that song that kept him from passing out on the floor or double bed, lying with the mass of bodies that were as still as corpses. The air smelled too sharp and sweet, the kind of scent that smoke and sex present. A human aroma, unwashed emotions, unwashed people.
He was only vaguely aware that he even smelled anything at all. He just sat there, staring into space, at a dark wall and a table with a vase and dead flowers. High class. The song kept him hanging in. He would not allow himself to die.
A woman's voice, singing long vowels in a tone that was nearly crying. He was crying. Crying for himself, for everyone sleeping in a single body unit, for the host in grey and the hostess in black, feeling, as she said, sick as hell.
She wasn't alone now. Everyone would feel as she did when they woke up, except for the ones who never went to bed. Those who never slept could never wake up from this dream. It was a dream, after all, just a wet dream. A bad wet dream.
He felt as though he were watching himself. He could see his faded suit and tattered hat, sitting askew on his head. A girl had knocked it when she kissed him. He had touched her bosom, but not bedded her. That was the next fellow's job.
The music began to grate. The woman's voice slowed and softened until only the sound of a revolving record issued from the victrola. He was instantly thrown back into himself, his consciousness hitting his body with the force of a falling brick. His head hurt, his eyes were swollen from tears and his face was pale from repressed nausea.
He wound the victrola up again, trying his best not to slip off his seat and fall into a darkness that would devour him. The candles sent shadows up the walls, long and frightening, fingers of the sins that had been committed, trying to take him with them. He wouldn't go.
The woman's voice started again, and he was drawn out of his body. Again and again, over and over. How many times had he heard this song? Too many to count, too few to matter. He wouldn't remember the words in the morning.
If the morning ever came.