The End of the Night

I came to with the entire Third World War happening in my skull. Eyes crusted shut, I rolled over and found Lena’s bare ass in my face, her three-legged cat purring on top of it. Everything was hammering. Bombs. The sun broke through the window like a knife and made me want to die.

Bottles everywhere—vodka, beer, whatever. I tried to sit up and nearly fell off the bed, caught myself on the nightstand, knocked over her green glass alarm clock. Watched it fall in that weird drug clarity and explode on the floor.

The sound woke the cat. She hissed at me with the worst noise in the world. I spit back and got up.

Keep it down. Peter on the couch—the red one, the bad one—jeans around his thighs, his erection pointed right at me. Didn’t bother hiding it.

Peter. Imported from California a few years back. Blonde, tan, exactly the type: fitness instructor, surfer energy, shell necklace, swordfish tattoo. Completely repellent. The swordfish was bigger than his dick.

I made it to the kitchen. Cornflakes. That was the only goal. The specific sweetness, the cinnamon dust, something going right for five seconds.

Did I seriously sleep with both of you? Again? Lena’s voice, destroyed. She was already at the mirror on the table, the twenty marks beside it. Snorted a line while I was eating. Coke dust exploded across everything. She freaked out about the cinnamon—said it triggered her allergies—threw the mirror at me, then disappeared with one of her cats. The disabled one. The one that just tips over. Left me there with the cereal and the overwhelming sense that I’d never be clean again.

I found my clothes. Looked at Peter one more time. Walked out into the morning. The TV tower was visible down the street, and somehow it looked like Peter’s dick. Put on my sunglasses. The street was lined with green trees. It was almost ten. I was going to be late to work. Again.

Taxi!