Page 28 of The Last Kiss

Huffing, I stare at the ceiling and stretch my toes, pinching the muscles in my calves. My eyes ache when I blink, my head pounding. I could blame the bottle of French red I went to the off-licence to buy, but I think the headache has been caused by other things, like dying.

I don’t know what happens today. Today is day one in the no man’s land called The End.

I’m headbutted again and I reach a hand into the chilled air of the bedroom before swiftly tucking myself back under.

French red.

Okay. I went for an Argentinian Malbec… planned to push the boat to seven quid. I figured dying deserved the splurge, but then I’d stood in front of all the reds and found myself drawn to the fancy French labels. Funny that French labels are class. No bright colours, no lizards or kangaroos. Subtle colours, classy fonts.

I’ve been trying very hard not to think about one-night-no names with the man mountain.

Thinking, not succeeding.

Because my thighs ache. I keep stretching my legs at the gentle pull of my muscles. My brain is on a porno reel where I think about him lifting my calf and taking off my M&S knickers.

One night. No names.

Someone tell my body that.

There’s this little warm flurry in deep places.

He was a bit like a French wine label: classy, unassuming, and smooth as you like as he slipped up and down. In and out.

Barney just wants breakfast. Unconcerned with my part memory, part fantasy, part absolute reluctance to get out of bed and face a Monday on what could be one of my last Mondays, he decides subtle purring and head butting isn’t getting him the things he needs—Whiskers—so he pads my face in an act of love, springing his claws at the last moment like a cruel lover intent on revenge.

I throw back the covers knocking him into a spiralling tangle. “Goddamn, motherfucker.”

And I’m cussing the cat.

Zombie swinging to the kitchen, I pick up his tin and shake some of the contents into his bowl as he weaves between my legs, our lovers spat momentarily forgotten as he pounces on a kibble that’s bounced off the bowl and skidded across the floor.

“Fatty,” I tell him, putting back his tin on top of the microwave and then flicking on the kettle.

While it boils, I pull on the cord for the blinds, peer outside and then swiftly lower it again.

I have a wardrobe issue.

At some senseless part of the night during Friday’s activities I swore to never wear my thick tights again.

With fair reasoning.

I pull on the cord again assessing the pregnant sky with a critical glance. It’s going to have to be what Liv calls ‘Work pants’.

Liv can wear work pants because her legs are ten foot long.

I wear suit pants, or smart tailoring, and I look like a prison guard. Or a woman who drives a security van, the type that has ‘This vehicle is armoured and alarmed’ printed on every side.

Grabbing a mug out of the cupboardit’s surface so cool against my touch I think I need to search for icicles in the flatmy heart races, rushes almost, skipping a beat, pounding hard for two, before racing for another three.

My head whirls.

Gasping, I catch my breath, a tiny puff of air wheezing into my lungs. My fingertips tingle, limbs heavy as I stumble towards the small lounge area and head for the sofa, Barney weaving between my ankles. “Not now, Barn.”

I can’t hear my own voice, maybe I didn’t even speak.

Falling onto the cushions of the sofa, I roll onto my back and focus on the ceiling, waiting for the breathlessness and the racing train in my chest to depart.

My skin slicks with sweat, head light.