Q - Inspiration point

Bleary eyed, dazzled, sun streaming through the window at her, Katie
awoke in her clothes, stiff boned with a pounding head.

What did she do last night? She had no idea.

How did she get home? She also hadn't the foggiest.

She vaguely remembered a taxi driver, some flirting, some throwing up,
some apologising, some stumbling around, some flower beds, some feeling
that it wasn't very funny any more.

She turned her head on the pillow, nostrils ensconced in tobacco-filled
hair. She didn't smoke again did she? Or had it just been the
smoke-filled bar?

She moved. The bed rustled. She moved again. The bed rustled again. She
was covered in rustling paper. All over her. Everywhere. Small oblong
pieces of paper. Thick. Important feeling. Like a ten pound note. Hang
on a minute. She sat bolt upright. 50s! A bedfull! A roomfull!
Absolutely bloody covered in ?50. notes!
How the hell did that happen? There must have been thousands there,
just bloody lying there.

Well, had she prostituted herself with the cute-ish taxi driver? Even
if she had, she was off her face, she couldn't have been that good. Had
she robbed a bank? and then got a taxi home - yeah, right.

The phone rang. What had she done? What was she going to do?

She ignored it and got up. Felt nauseous. Undressed from last night's
smoky clothes. Stood in her underwear, peering at all the money. Put on
her old glasses and peered some more. She gathered some up, threw them
up in the air, tumbling down again on top of her, she collapsed back
onto the bed and groaned, smiling insanely. What a crazy life.

Then she remembered. She had only bloody gone and done it. She had only
gone and quit her job yesterday. Not just in her dreams. She had
marched right in there into Mr Fat and Lazy so and so's office and told
him to stick his stupid job once and for all, but what about the money?
That still didn't explain the money. Arrrrrghhh. She couldn't think.
Her head hurt far too much.

Still in yesterday's underwear she stumbled through the lounge and into
the bathroom. Hang on a minute. There was someone in the living room,
sitting reading the paper. Today's paper.

"I will make you coffee, yes?" he said.

"Yes, but&;#8230;?"

"We talk later. You worry about the wash. I will make coffee. See you
in 10 minutes approximately".

She closed the bathroom door behind her and lent back against it. She
lent over the sink and splashed cold water over her face. Looking up
through the murky remnants of last night's mascara she read
aloud:

"I LOVE YOU&;#8230;" written on the mirror in her lipstick. She
glanced over to the bathroom cabinet which had a small mirrored door.
In smaller writing: " YOU BITCH".

What the hell was going on?

She took a piece of loo roll and wiped the mirrors, smearing them at
first.

She took off her knickers and bra and stepped tentatively into the
shower, noticing a large blister on her right foot. The hot water
pulsed down onto her back, her shoulders. Heaven. But still what the
hell was going on? Her brain tried to race and was unable.