Grease

I’ve just woken up. My eyes blink and a grey ceiling is above me, speckled with black splodges, and a stringy cobweb in the corner. My hangover lingers in the background, like a radio on low volume, threatening to ruin the day, but not bad enough to stop me from sitting up and looking around properly. Not bad enough to stop me from remembering.

I rub my eyes. The room hints at smoke, but alcohol overpowers it – a putrid whiff of whiskey, mixed with the faint essence of shit beer. A bottle gives the game away. It sits, empty, propped against the couch, its green neck slanted on the stained carpet. Old burns from cigarettes tinge a matted surface; they’ve been wiped again and again, but the grey stains won’t budge.

I sit up, planting my feet on the carpet. I look ahead to the window. I can’t see anything except for grey, and I can’t hear but for the faint patter of droplets on the window pane. There is nothing except the mist that engulfs the neighbouring flats; the watery mass alludes to the presence of the renovated medieval buildings but gives little away, and I accept that I can’t see what’s going on outside and, after gathering myself, I stand up. The view behind me is much worse. The cigarette stains are clustered around the door, as if he sat there one night right next to it, smoking his way through packs of Marlboro lights and stubbing them out to make a bizarrely symmetrical pattern. He’d puff after every fag, vowing it was the last one. I step over them. I walk towards his room, and I’m almost at the door, when the stench of smoke makes me nauseous. I run to the toilet, holding my nose, and a gush of yellow vomit streams from my mouth. I gasp after, clinging to the seat, praying he doesn’t wake up. I hear snoring. The smoke is coming from the kitchen. I stand up slowly; reeling from the sickness, and walk into the kitchen. The oven has been left ajar; a cheesy crust covers the grill at the bottom, and the faint smell of cheap, thick crust pizza lingers. I walk over and close it. I feel the grease seep into my palms from touching the door; the handle is caked in whatever we cooked last night. I turn to the table and there is an overflowing ashtray, its glassy bottom has stopped a puddle of beer from hitting the floor; the slight yellow liquid is masked by the worn brown wood of the old, fragile table. I sit and scan the table for a cigarette, and when I can’t find one, and when I can’t think what to do next, I make my way to the bedroom.

It is exactly how I left it last night. He is still fast asleep. It’s only 10am, and we were up until 5. I look at the man in the bed for a while. I play with my hair, contemplating whether to wake him: how I should go about this. His hairy thigh straddles the duvet, his mouth is slightly open, his arm lightly cups the crease of the covers. He looks like a baby. I sigh loudly, as if that would be enough to wake him from his potentially still drunk sleep. I contemplate getting in beside him, wrapping his rigid arm around me and acting like I was there the whole night, but I can’t. I clear my throat and leave the room.