The Golden Night

Music. Dancing. Lights. Loud voices. Old friends. New friends.

It's all coming back to you now as you're beginning to wake. This happens every year. Same month. Same hotel. Same drinks. Same music. Nothing changes - but you don't complain. It's with him and you could never fault that. 

As you begin to open your eyes you realize the hangover you have. You rub your eyes trying to be rid of this yearly hangover, but it is of course to no avail. A dizzy spell sweeps over you along with a hot flush and you scrunch your face waiting for it to pass. Once it goes you begin to stretch your arms above your head, running your arms up along what you can only describe as satin, until your hands reach the cool-to-the-touch headboard. A welcome feeling. 

Crack. Crack. Crack. 

Your body has no problem with the cracks your spine and elbows make. The cracks remind you of what happened last night. His dancing. His hair. The pants.... - You smile at the memory. 

Once your eyes open fully and you blink repeatedly you notice the room is shrouded in a warm, nearly yellow natural light. The room is airy and open - probably because the balcony doors are wide open and the breeze causes the long thin white curtains to be flowing in and out of the room in a regular rhythm. 

You sit up in the bed and stretch again just as another dizzy spell comes over you. When this one disappears, the smell of fresh coffee suddenly hits you. To your left there is a mug of coffee on the table with a note saying "You pretty thing"  with a deep red lipstick mark in the bottom left corner. You take the mug in both hands and blow gently on the surface. You take a sip. Still hot. It wasn't made too long ago. 

Once you have a few mouthfuls of coffee in you, you to take in the room. It has changed since yesterday evening before you went out. A picture from the wall is now on the floor. The ceiling light has no lampshade anymore. The six pillows that were on the bed are now pilled in one corner of the room. A curtain that used to be up is now draped over the open bathroom door. An eventful night to say the least.

You put the half empty mug back next to the note and shuffle your way to the edge of the bed. Just as you're about to attempt to stand up you notice your clothes. Or lack of clothes. You're wearing his shirt. He always looks after you when you get slightly too drunk. However, the shirt is buttoned wrong so he was probably fairly tipsy himself - that and his shirt is the only thing you are wearing. 

After three attempts you finally manage to stand up and make your way over to an armchair buried in all sorts of clothing trying to find some sort of pants or shorts. T-shirts. A pair of socks. A jacket. Tights. A hat. Two mismatching gloves. You settle for the pair of bright pink boxers that you got him during his last tour two years ago. Too big, but the comfort is needed.

A low sweet voice drifts in on the breeze from the balcony,

                     "You've torn your dress,

                        your face is a mess"

 Fitting song to follow that night.

 You pick your half finished coffee back up and take a sip as you follow that irresistible silvery voice out onto the balcony.  As you step out into the breeze through two gently flowing thin curtains you lean against the wooden frame and turn to your right. 

"Hallo spaceboy", you say in a mildly hoarse voice.

There he is. Sitting ethereally. Legs crossed. Smoking. 

"Morning my angel", he answers smiling. 

You smile and bring the mug up to your mouth with both hands.

He uncrosses his legs and looks at you with a smirk. You walk over to him and sit on his lap. His arms wrap around your shoulders and he pulls you close to rest your head on his shoulder while he kisses the side of your forehead. 

There you both sit. 

Watching the streets of Paris come to life. 

~ Scout CB