Morning Inglory
Good morning, sideways word, you're looking positively radiant. I roll over from my left to my right. It's quarter-past-eleven. With the exception of an urgent thirst, last night was kind to me. The sunshine outside is nothing short of blinding; my bedroom feels like an incubator.
Bare-footed and topless I leave my habitat, after squeezing into the burgundy drainpipes that were draped over my desk-chair, in search of some drought quenching fluid. At the top of the stairs I find Allen. Or I find his legs, rather, sticking out of our storage cupboard, his biege chinos torn and bloody at the knees. He is wearing one single, lonely black sock that says Wednesday on it - vintage Starkey. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he hasn't been wearing the same pair of socks for three days, going on four, and just doesn't care for regimented clothing. Attatched to Allen's lower-body, as it goes, is his upper-body. His neck is at a jaunty angle and he is hugging a Henry Hoover, the latter wearing that permenant grin, the grin he's always had but as he sits with Allen wrapped around his base I notice an underlying suggestiveness to that smile. I won't be surpised if he shoots me a wink. It's unforgivable, in my opinion, to interupt someones dreams. I'll leave him and Henry to it.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, I find a table covered in empty beer cans. Before I can think about clearing that though, I address the most pressing matter at hand. Opening the fridge I grab the first container of fluid I see, pre-diluted blackcurrent squash, which I gulp until the coldness gives me achey temples. Tidying the kitchen can wait. I have three weeks to myself and I'll probably not lift a domestic finger for it's duration. I'm not an anal person, I'm just simply not.
It's Saturday, though every day might as well be a Saturday when it's the summer holidays. I open the back door to try and cool down my furnace like home. There is a hot breeze. It feels sensual on my bare chest and shoulders, as does the bristley doormat on the soles of my bare feet as I step outside. I curl and uncurl my toes, tilting my head backward and closing my eyes. I could purr with pleasure. Easing back into full conciousness I see that Claudia's bedroom window has been flung open giving the rhodedendran an oportunity to suffocate her as she sleeps. However, before I even get a moment to imagine her in a perverse slumber I'm distracted by a flash of blond hair and floral textiles at the back gate.
"Looking good, Lovett" Claudia, my qualtagh says after blowing a wolf whistle my way. I'm now very aware of my toplessness.
"Morning, Claudia".
Is it still morning?
"You need a tan, my friend, you look positively enemic."
"It's an iron defficiency". This is good. We're laughing.
"You're a weirdo, Miles. Lie in the sun for a while, you ghoul."
"I told you, it's an iron defficiency." I need to say something enticing next, "iron defficiency" has been played out. This is the sentence that I choose:
"Did you know that you are my quatlagh today?"
"What the fuck is a kwatlag?"
"Quatlagh - The first person one sees after leaving the house."
I impress myself sometimes.
"What a useless word."
"Floccinaucinihilipilification is the categorising of something as useless or trivial, did you know?"
I really impress myself sometimes.
"No. I didn't."
I can feel her interest and patience dwindling. I look at her testy posture and see our conversations maker. Sphallolalia, I remember, is the term for flirtatious talk that leads nowhere. Even in my lacadaisacal mindset I ooze obscurity and cleverness. Girls like to be asked questions, I've heard.
"What are you doing tonight, Claudia?"
"Nothing, as it goes. Why do you ask?"
"Come over. My mum and dad are on holiday in France. You know, if you're not doing anything, you might as well."
"Er..." Never a good start, "well, can I bring a few of my friends over? You should make it a party!"
A party? All those people in my house - touching my possesions, enjoying themselves. It doesn't appeal but if it'll give me a chance to talk to an intoxicated Claudia then I'll do it. A drunken mind speaks a true heart.
"Yes. Yes, bring who you want and I'll get the word out. Seven o'clock."
Instant regret. And with that, Claudia and I are done for now. Smiles, waves and goodbyes.
I should get dressed and clean up. I have a party to organise. Shit.