Coming down

In the grey void of a dawn without a sunrise, we rotted. The grim
pallor of faded debauchery had infected the room, faces hidden by masks
of fatigue and nausea. We had reached that part of the night where time
begins to catch up with space again. We were collapsing back into
ourselves, as the tension on our elastic band bodies was finally
released. The party was over, but we weren't going to be sleeping for a
while. We were within the collective comedown, and there was no
escape.

Nobody was saying anything. We had gone past the exaggerated closeness
and the overpowering honesty to a stage where we just didn't want to be
there, stuck in some limbo between accelerated consciousness and the
release of sleep. Sometimes I would crawl off to bed, hoping for sleep,
but inevitably I'd find myself staring at the ceiling, too wired to
drift away, the bass still running around my mind, the ghosts of the
club coming back to me. It wasn't long before I was back in the lounge,
watching Rob play WipeOut, just for some visual stimulus to keep my
mind off the internal stimulus it was offering me. That dirty smell (or
maybe it's a taste, I'm never sure) had descended on us. The sweat of a
night's dancing had dried beneath our clothes, and the familiar bleak
staleness had invaded our nostrils. Five tongues were raw from the
constant chewing and teethgrinding, five throats ravaged from
chain-smoking all night. We had got through the best part of an eighth
since coming back, but it was hardly touching me, just adding another
bad taste to the musty air of the room. Sunken eyes surveyed the debris
as shaking hands did their feeble best to carry on skinning up. The
random hangers-on had all departed, probably never to be seen again
until the next time there were free drugs on offer. With them had gone
the need to keep up the appearance of being up for it. We were all
mashed, and we were prepared to admit it.

Rob had eventually got bored of the PlayStation, and started making a
mix for a bong. In the corner of the room, the television quietly did
its thing, the late night weird TV having given way to the early
morning sensible programmes. Before long, if we weren't careful, we'd
be plagued by religion. How long was this paralysis going to carry on
for? Were we going to write this Sunday off as a dead loss and keep
going all day? Sleep now would just mean none tonight, which would mean
feeling even worse at work tomorrow. It wouldn't be all that long
before the pub would be open, and we could go and gently sip at pints.
Yes, the vision of a cold pint of lager had installed itself in my
mind, a spiritual quest for a pint and a packet of crisps in our scabby
old local. At least we were old enough now that we didn't have to worry
about going home for Sunday lunch with the family. We'd all been
through that particular nightmare enough times to last a
lifetime.

I looked at the clock: 8am. Three hours until I could get that pint. I
could see it in front of me, droplets of condensation glistening on the
shoulder of the glass, the sunlight pouring through the beer, giving it
a golden glow. Three hours. I looked at the couch. Dan was still
there.

"Wake up! Dan, you're late for work!" I hissed, shaking him gently by
the shoulder.
"mm, fuck off."
"Wake up"
"f'koff"
"Dan, it's eight o'clock. You're late for work."

He sat up, slowly, and began to take in his surroundings.

"What time is it?"
"Eight"
"Oh, shit."

He began to get ready, rushing into the lounge to find some shoes and a
coat, dervish-like. Then he caught sight of his reflection.

"Bollocks to it."

He sat down again, looked around the table for some Rizla and began to
skin up.

"You not going in, mate?"
"Nah, fuck it. I'm sick of that fucking job. They treat you like a cunt
there. I'm better off out of it."
"Fair enough."
"Got any roach?"