the end of the night

The room at 2am, everyone getting stoned from the home-made bong that D produces. There's a fender Rhodes on the floor that I am playing. A couple of marijuana plants sit on a table, amongst a mess of papers, CD cases. T-shirts hang on the windows, walls and chairs. A sofa sits at one end of the room, underneath a giant Afghan tapestry featuring a giant, very happy looking lion.

When the rum comes it is smooth and brown, served in small, specialist glasses for the connoisseur. It tastes sweet and dark and deliciously strong as it trickles down my throat. I sit on the sofa next to a guy, others strewing themselves about the floor, and we talk of things that seem to have little meaning with the music playing. It's all about the music. He tries to strike up a conversation about work; I know that we are both currently members of the same profession, but all talk of work seems utterly meaningless with the sweet taste of connoisseur rum in my mouth.

“That was an amazing gig, wasn't it?” he says, with the earnestness reserved for the stoned stoner.

“Yes, utterly.” I reply. I am sure we've discussed this already a thousand times, but it truly was an amazing gig.

“It's too soon to have children, don't you think?” he has changed the topic silently.

“What?”

“Getting married and having children straight away. It's not a good idea is it? Better to wait a while.”

He's asking me as if I am an authority on the subject, like he is a child and I am the adult, although he is actually older than me.

“You do know I am married and have a kid, don't you?” I reply, as if I have just remembered it myself.

*****

Later I lie by myself on the floor matt. I have just woken up from a deep sleep, but it is too cold for me to continue. I get up and search for a blanket. Can't believe D has left me blanket-less. Standing up I take the opportunity to look out the window in the early morning light. I've never been to this house before, so I feel a bit like I'm locked in a secret box at the end of the world. Outside there's a long garden flowing with rough brown dirty grass, almost derelict. The backsides of the houses lined up on the other side seem misty and miles away.

Having found a blanket behind the sofa that I daren't look too closely at, I settle down to sleep. The matt is a bit hard, but I am so tired, drunk and stoned, I could sleep on a bed of forks. I imagine a nice, bouncy bed of forks, and the thought puts me to sleep.

*****

We sneak out in the morning. Me and P.

“Did you notice how there're no beds at all in this house?” I ask P, and he agrees. It is a funny fact.

“They must have been brought up that way.”

We ponder their derelict upbringing in silence, and I think of the huge Lion of contentment on the wall. Who needs beds anyway?

*****

P and I catch an 11 o-clock train, sipping coffees and munching on croissants. We discuss sport, books and careers in the haphazard, care free fashion reserved for Saturdays. Around half-way we stop at a busy station, and there are suddenly hundreds of people crowding all around us. I have to put the coffee cup by my feet, and worry constantly about knocking it over accidentally and causing a mess. P plays with his snazzy new mobile phone and I wonder where She is right now. It's my most secret and forbidden thought, She being a girl I narrowly avoided dating at university, and bitterly regretted losing. She stole my heart, somehow, but in time I grew another one and gave it to my wife. The thought comforts me for some reason.

When the train arrives at our destination P and I part with quiet handshakes. It's a cloudy, muggy day, and we are both hungover. At least we have beds to return to, I know we are both thinking. Mine is messy and his is neat, but they are both warm and comfortable.

*****

I cycle home via the quick route, and jump straight into the shower. Water washes the night away.