Heartbeats in Moonlight

Chapter 81

David woke with a hangover to end all hangovers. His head hammered. His tongue felt furry and huge. His eyes felt gritty as if someone had ground salt in his eyes. His mouth felt like it was stuffed full of old socks, and probably reeked worse.

For several minutes he just lay on his back staring blankly at the ceiling. His head wasn't spinning around. His head was clear. Obviously, he was one of those fortunate people who indulged in alcohol for too long, who swigged too much whisky, wouldn't end up with an hangover. He grinned. Yup, he didn't have a hangover. He licked his lips.

Then suddenly he could taste her. Actually could taste her.

That had him sitting up quickly, and swearing loudly as his alcohol-recovering-brain shrieked in protest. Ok, obviously a bit of a hangover. But taste? How could he taste her? Not possible. Taste her? How? He kept murmuring, as those questions repeated in his mind. Her taste? It wasn't real. It must be a dream. His wants manifesting in imagination. His brain was playing tricks on him. Too much alcohol still in his blood, that is what it was. Too much alcohol in his system. His imagination had taken over.

He considered, right now, trying to get his brain to cooperate, but his brain was washed with alcohol last night and it left him in a pickle. Definitely, not reality. She wouldn't touch him with a barge pole. She had vanished for weeks. Couldn't be bothered to return his calls. Hadn't the courtesy to tell him where she was? She only came back for Mallory's wedding. Ignored him for most of Mallory's reception. Only offered a lift because his sister was dancing. There was nothing to suggest that he had a taste of her!

In his mind, he reviewed his memory-store: She brought him home, helped him undress, and left. Surely that was it. Undressed. Fell asleep. The end.

He tried to remember. Obviously his short term memory has a problem. He frowned, and reconsidered again. The thoughts raced through his mind: She brought him home. Helped him undress. That was real. Those particular sentences replayed in his mind. Then what?

He buried his face in his hands and scrubbed at his whiskered cheeks. Then she'd left. He'd fallen. But in the back of his mind, he thought she came back to help me. I fell. She saw him. He was sure of that. Must be a dream. He stared at the ceiling. The next time he picked up a drink he hoped someone would stop him. He just couldn't remember pertinent facts, all because he had drank too much. Alcohol obviously generated memories. Interesting memories. Can't be right be. He closed his eyes and blew out a breath. Did he have sex with her last night? Not possible.

Must be just his imagination. Bump on the head. If it were real she'd be here, in bed, with him. But, according to his foggy-memory, they had made love. They made love, over and over. He groaned, was that just his imagination? Because he really wanted it to be real. Had fantasised about it for days after that kiss in Christchurch. But he knew the difference between his fantasy and this foggy-memory-reverie. But it can't be real. Must be just a dream. Fantasy. Obviously just a trance. Delusion. He blew out another breath. Yep, just a dream.

But what a dream! He thought as his fogged brain cleared. She was everything he'd ever wanted and then some. Beautiful, passionate, giving, taking. He frowned. How would he know?

Taking his time he got to his feet and padded naked to the shower. He ignored his discarded clothes. Well at least he wasn't suffering from a hangover, not like most normal people! But at least those people would remember! It would be better if he could remember what happened last night. He could put with a hangover, if he could remember. He stepped into the large cubicle, more like wet area and turned on the dial to cold. He just stood beneath the gush of cold water and closed his eyes. Cold water cascaded on his head, his shoulders, his arms. And even that didn't register in his mind. He was trying so hard to remember last night, that he couldn't even feel the goosebumps now. Perhaps shivering will force his brain to think!

His eyes were shut, his palms were flat on the shower-tiles, as cold water continued to splash against his shivering flesh. Determined to revive his memory. Fragments. Gradually more disjointed-memories resurfaced. He leaned his forehead against the tiles, the water splashed his back and neck, and his nerves sparked in response, and something about that was familiar. Stimuli of difference but still resulted in sparks.

He remembered getting undressed. He had faint recollections of having problems getting his pants off. Then a bit more came back. He remembered pieces. He fell. With her. Onto the bed. He accepted that. That was a fact. Not a dream. He continued to focus on his piecemeal-memories. Her dress ripped. He remembered that. He remembered her. The fact she rolled him to his back and saw her ripped dress. His eyes snapped open, as he remember that bitty in full glory colour. He turned the water off, reached for a towel, and wrapped it around his hips and scowled.

He kissed her. He was sure. He kissed her. That fragment was real.

Then what? Coffee. That's what he needed. Black. Strong. Coffee. Surely his memory of last night would surfaced, in full detail. 

He walked over to his wardrobe, retrieved a fresh shirt, jeans, and dropped them on the bedroom and went to get his  boxers when he saw the note on the bed cabinet. A post-it. He picked it up.

"Taken a t-shirt. Will wash and return it. Ella." It read.

He sat on the bed. Stared at the note. She wrote a note? He put the note back on the bed cabinet. And just stared at it.

She borrowed a tshirt? He looked around, expecting to see her dress on the floor.

He picked up the note. Read it again, as if it held a secret code. 

Might reach her knees, well, probably her thighs, as she was tall. But why would she need it? 

And then it all came flooding back, the reality of the night.