When I woke up the next morning I was a little disoriented. Abasin and Synthol makes for one mother of a hangover, and I had my head tipped under the cold tap in the kitchen sink before I even remembered I'd had a girl over. When it finally came back to me, I nearly drowned myself with the faucet. I groped around for the tap handle and then for something to dry my hair. I found a manky old dishtowel that probably hadn't been washed since before I'd moved in. I leaned against the counter, drying my hair and feeling contemplative. Would asking her out again be awkward? Was she just really drunk, or did she really like me? Or was I just over-analyzing? Only one way to find out, I went back to my room.
She wasn't there. My heart sank to my toes. Had it been a dream? Had this beautiful creature been a figment of my imagination? I felt like crying, and I hadn't felt like crying in years. Then my rational brain kicked in. Of course, she had been real. Of course, it had been the best sex of MY life. But Abasin and Synthol make quite a combination. The experience was one-sided. You are the one who thought there would me something there in the morning. She'd had a good time, and then gone home. Just like a thousand similar encounters that happened every night on this planet. I'd never see her again, one-night-stand. It was over, finito, finished. You'll forget it in time. I felt a little better, but not much. I plodded to the bathroom, trying not to think, but I couldn't help but notice there was no dramatic note in lipstick on the mirror. That had been a favorite of Vaya's. Somehow, that depressed me even more. I hunted around in the linen alcove until I found my secret stash of painkillers. I have to hide them lest my darling little sister use them all on her many hangovers. I downed a few and turned on the sonic shower. I deposited last night's underwear and the dishtowel into the laundry bin before I got in. As the medication set in the fog in my brain began to clear and I became proportionately more depressed. I was remembering the previous night more clearly, and that made my loneliness more vivid. I turned the shower off, and started to think of a valid excuse not to go in to work. I dried off with a proper towel and wrapped up in my mangy old robe, which was very warm and comforting despite its advanced age. I padded back out to the kitchen and put on the morning kettle. A series of giggles issued from Kitty's room. Apparently she'd had somebody over too; several somebody's in fact. I rummaged around in search of something edible among the mess. I was rewarded with a half box of not-to-stale biscuits. I made tea, flopped on the sofa with my breakfast, and began to chew the light, sugary pastry. Maybe I would stay home and clean. My apartment was a sty. Kitty never bothered to clean anything but her toys and her school uniform. I was surveying the mess when I noticed a patch of lavender and white pined to my door. That was not part of Kitty's mess. I set my mug and box down on some Pearl's Best Malt Synthol cans (the only clean surface on the coffee table) and went to the door. It was a note:
Dear Red,
I'm sorry I had to leave you sleeping.
But I blew off work yesterday, and went early
to catch up. I want to see you again. Meet me
at Sunsets tonight at hour eleven. I'll wait till
half past. If you don't show, I understand.
If you do, I have something in mind.
Morphia
Suddenly, the day looked a whole lot better. That was the white part; the lavender part was a hanky. Art-lace; real seed silk, not Synth. I pressed the soft handful to my cheek. It was like…
"G'mornin' Sisa darling!" Kitty was awake, and in a rare form, already trying to annoy me with childish nicknames. I hurriedly tucked the hanky into my robe.
"Good morning, Kit."
"Ohhhhh, whas' that? A good-bye present from you one true love?" She giggled.
Headache, five-foot-three, one-hundred-and-twenty-eight-pound, blinding, splitting headache. I stalked back to my spot on the sofa and buried my face in a biscuit. Kitty picked up a half-full bottle of something and headed back to her giggling bedroom, but not before giving me a maddeningly self-satisfied grin. As soon as the door snicked shut I whipped the hanky out and pressed it to my face. It smelled like her, sweet and musky. After a moment like this, it occurred to me that I was acting like a real twit. I folded it up and tucked it back into my robe, near my skin. Today would be a very good day. Then I looked at the clock.
"Oh, unholy mother of the Goddess!" Why hadn't Kitty said something about the time? Who was I kidding? I'd blown off work yesterday too. I swept back to my room, late, late, late! I looked for something clean to wear and wondered what I could possibly do with my hair, got tangled in my bra, and was absolutely, hideously late.