"Is there somewhere I can wash up," she asked, placing her mug on the floor beside his.
"Down the hall, first right," he said, standing up from the mattress, "I'll be in the kitchen." He left.
The mirror above the skink was cracked and speckled with black dots. She looked a mess: her hair a brown halo and mouth was too red in colour. She did her best with water and a hair tie, curling her hair into a top knot. Her neck had a line of purple bruises.
He was leaning against the kitchen counter and looking out of the grubby window. The sky was a dank grey. It was going to rain for sure. That hot rain, which causing the humidity to rise and catch in your lungs.
There was a Bowie poster taped to the white washed wall, beside that was a reproduction poster of an old Billy Joel album cover.
She pulled out a chair from under the small table and watched him. His arms were bare and toned, but his wrists slim and thin and she could see the joints jutting clearly through his skin. She ran her hands over the cruddy table top, tiny pieces of tobacco leaves sticking to her fingers.
"I need to be heading out," he announced, still looking out the window.
"It's going to rain soon," she said, more to herself than him; thinking about her jacket which she'd never picked up from the club.
"This is London. It's always raining," he looked at her now, his grey eyes as heavy as the clouds. "Nearest tube is Camden Town, I'll walk to there. It's on my way."
The streets were busy and she felt conspicuous in her dress and heels, as if the whole truth of last night was etched on her face. He strolled beside her, in a pair of scuffled Dr Martens and an old looking leather jacket. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.
"I thought you smoked roll ups?" She questioned.
"Only because the packets are pricey. Cigs are only for when roll ups are too fiddly to make. I didn't think you'd appreciate me stopping to roll a fag," he winked at her and lit the tip. At the first drag, an expression of pure bliss flowed over his face.
Hermione felt the rain begin to spit, tiny droplets hitting her exploded flesh. She shivered in anticipation of the downfall.
"Here," he slunk off his jacket and placed it round her shoulders. Underneath he was wearing a tatty Guns'N'Roses tank. It was loosely cut and through the neck she could see his firm chest and the small scratch marks she'd made across his pectorals.
"Thanks."
They walked in silence, the rain now a low drizzle that could be kept up all day.
The Underground's neon sign came into view. Standing to the side of the steps, she looked up at him. There were shadows under his eyes, like smudges of blue eyeshadow. His lips were dry and an unhealthy pale pink. His own neck had matching bruises to her own.
She slipped the jacket off.
"Keep it," he said. He stubbed out the fag with the flat of his boot, squashing the lit end into the damp ground.
"But -"
"Keep it till tonight. My band are playing, bring it to the gig. Flyer is in the pocket."
He guided the heavy material back over her shoulders. Taking hold of the jacket's lapels he pulled her closer. His mouth met her's. He still tasted of ash and now the bitter tang of coffee was added to the mix. She softly moved her lips under his.
He broke the kiss.
"Till tonight," and he walked away. She watched his retreating back, the rain quickly soaking his tank and sticking the material to his body. She stuffed her hand into the jacket's oversized pockets. Her found the laminated flyer, but her finger's also traced along the edges of cardboard cigarette packet.
...
Thank you to Dancing-Souls for the review.