Who am I today? My tongue moved around my mouth mixing a cocktail of whiskey, smoke and spit. The sunlight worked its way between the slated blinds and cut out straight shapes from the murkiness around me. I reached out and took a handful of her plump ass. She wriggled back into me, picked my hand up from her buttocks and wrapped it around her. I kissed the nape of her neck and whispered sounds in her ear. Sounds she wanted to hear. Her lips curled into a smile. Her eyes remained closed. She was trying to match my voice to a better man – a first love, the waiter at our table last night, her boss, her father, her husband.
“Hey, you,” She never calls me by my real name. A soft succession of sleepy syllables as her body rolled into me, “You’re up early.” Her eyes remained closed. I was still any man she wanted me to be. In this moment of half-dream, I remained as an idea. An idea of waking up next to the man she wanted and loved. An idea of eating breakfast together and pouring a cup of tea for eachother whilst partaking in tender chat. An idea of a kiss to the forehead and a reciprocal straightening of the tie upon departure for work. An idea of returning home, relaxing, embracing, fucking missionary and holding eachother close in bed. An idea of starting the whole routine again. Stability. My voice was stability and, while her eyes were closed, my words belonged to a man that could provide her with that stability. Before long her eyes will open and, upon realisation of the illusion, she will be hit by the hangover of reality. The idea will fade and she will gently turn away from me, pull the covers tightly into her chest and pretend to go back to sleep.