𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. ⁽⁽⁽ᵗʰᵉ ¹⁹⁷⁵ ᵒⁿᵉˢʰᵒᵗˢ⁾⁾⁾

after the party.

Imagine the aftermath of a party: a wrecked flat, overflowing ashtrays and snores at sunrise. Alice is watching a pretty boy sleep in the kitchen while she smokes out on the balcony. The idea of having this boy seems too good to be true - until he wakes up, and then the day that follows is like a dream.

mature content. 5609 words.

The flat is corrupted with cigarette smoke. It infiltrates the sofa cushions, the porous plaster in the walls. A stained coffee table is littered with beer cans, mostly empty except for one that has toppled over over the course of the night, and soaked the pages of Catch 22 a grubby, sepia brown with its contents.

She picks her way across the carpet. There is precious little floor space to tread on; record sleeves slip and slide under her socks, and her toe brushes the leg of a sleeper. They grunt - she apologises, but the words fall on deaf ears. Alice doesn't know the faces that are scattered throughout the apartment, contorted by dreams and snores. Some are beautiful and handsome, others vaguely repulsive to her, or just plain, but all unknown quantities, safely observed as though preserved in aspic.

The table in the hallway is precariously loaded, its surface crammed with more cans, glasses and one ashtray that is still smoking slightly from the last half-stubbed rollie that has been dropped there. Alice lifts this out of the mire, tiptoeing to the balcony in the kitchen and discarding the contents into downstairs' garden.

Only one person remains in the kitchen. It is the only room with no soft furnishings to crash out upon, a fact that has not deterred this young man, who is dead to the world, despite being propped up on a cheap, hard Ikea chair. His jacket is bundled up between his head and the wall, the only concession to comfort. Alice silently lowers herself onto the chair that is pulled out at the opposite side of the table and rolls a cigarette.

She pauses in between deft actions; a sprinkle here, a lick there, and every other second, a glance up. It is a tantalising opportunity to stare, the way that is hardly acceptable, under normal circumstances. This man - barely that - is utterly still in repose, his features sharply outlined by dark lashes and neat contours. The angled nose and full upper lip would seem remarkably feminine, if not for the slightly furrowed brow and subtle groove in his chin, which rests just above his shoulder.

Alice can't help but be impressed. She already wants this boy - that's how she will think of him, since although he's easily in his mid-twenties, she finds many 'men' to be possessive and intimidating, and yet she already feels sure this one would not be so. She wants a boy like this, to feel equal to as a girl, and perhaps also to push his lips and body against hers and align perfectly. But for all she knows, this one will open his eyes and disappoint, either through his nature, or the change of his expression, or even later, by the clashing, uncomfortable touch that alludes to an incompatible coupling. She puts the cigarette between her lips and lights it as quietly as she can, turning away to exhale out on the balcony.

His eyes open, slowly at first, and then with a flutter. The kitchen itself is practically a blank room, all white goods and formica surfaces. An overflowing bin in the corner encroaches upon a small puddle formed where somebody has dropped an ice tray dug out of the freezer. The sunrise has flooded the kitchen within minutes; it is the piercing streak of light that has broken his sleep and disturbed a dream which involved which involved, somewhat implausibly, Michael Jackson doing stand-up comedy in the Albert Hall.

He spots her quickly, leaning over the balcony and gazing into the thicket of weeds below. She strains downwards and reaches out a twitching hand, making chirping sounds, and he realises that she is watching a cat make its way along the wall. This lasts only a second or two before she sighs, stands upright and stubs the end of her cigarette out on the balcony railing. For a second, Matty contemplates whether to close his eyes again and feign sleep, or deal with a brief moment of social awkwardness, just to satisfy his curiosity. He chooses the latter.