My Lennan Sidhe.

The clock doesn’t strike, because there’s no time in this neighbourhood. All I hear are screaming sirens sailing off into the morning, with echoing whispers from the wind that slides from street to street. In the middle of nowhere, and not knowing what I’m doing in these robes and sandals when its minus degrees outside.

They thought it’d be funny to strand me in this desolate place, and now I’m trying to figure out exactly what this place is. To be seen in this is something no one should have to endure, especially the natives of Southsea. It’s colder than a witch’s tit here, and not even God knows how I’ll get back to civilization.

I’ve had more than enough and it’s the proverbial blanket that surrounds me, not the Primark ones that cover my torso and arse, and equipped with about as much sense of direction as a blind man without a stick, I might as well face it. I’m fucked.

Each shivering second as I pass each generic road and each crappy hedge or wall, everything suddenly emerges. It’s just all one big joke, me, this, everything. I try to laugh but the air escapes my frozen lungs like the thought does.

I would worry, but the temperature’s the only thing seeming to cling onto me bar the toga, and I don’t think it’s funny anymore. Banter? They can stick that banter right up their third year arses.

I seem to have some form of a natural instinct of being absolutely useless with directions other than when I’m completely shitfaced, and in this case, I seem to be absolutely proven right. But every step I take, the buildings I recognize seem to have this ability to hide somehow, mask themselves from my own eyes. I must be high, or something.

I stop for a second to think, but thinking is about as useful as pissing on your own shoes. I try my phone again, try to ring, but clichéd as hell, the battery seems to have committed cellular suicide. Shit.

Suddenly, I look up and she’s there. Middle of the road, red dress. Hot. One shoe lying there askew next to her bottle of Smirnoff, lit cigarette smog seems to linger in the air. I recognize her, partially, one because she’s got her back to me and two it’s three in the bloody morning.

Thinking I’d look a dick for asking directions, especially as incapacitated as I could be, I try to act as normal as humanly possible and fail miserably. Instead of being cool, I act as if I haven’t seen her and she hasn’t glimpsed me. Play around with the dead phone, try to look like you’re actually popular, or some nonsense like that. Yeah, act popular.  I then somehow slowly make my way past and towards her. 

She turns. Sees me. Smiles. “Looking good, I see. What the fuck are you doing here, Pedro?”

Taking a long drag from the Mayfair fag, she stands now, holding one hand on her left bicep and blows smoke straight at me. “Just having a stroll in this shithole. Got one I could pinch?”

She offers one before I can finish my sentence, and I act cool about it. Getting one, she lights it with hers and passes it along. Her fingers touch, but they’re warm. Warm like fire. Mine are ice, and she quickly jerks them away. “You look wasted. Good night then?”

We shoot the shit for a few more minutes, but it seems like hours long. She seemed to listen and laugh, and for some reason, listen. This was shocking, but I downplayed it as much as I could. I also try not to let on that my balls are freezing and pretty soon I won’t be able to feel anything again. I’ve had a few and that’s helped, but there’s a threshold for everything and everyone.

But she distracts this coldness with her casualness. Another cigarette, another set of jokes and lines you wouldn’t want to repeat to anyone, ever. As I finally pluck the courage to as her for directions, she interrupts me by asking a question. “D’you wanna come in?” I’m a bit shocked, but don’t show it. Well, I’m wasted so I think I don’t show it. “Yeah, if that’s cool with you.”

She half smiles, and pushes a door open, walks in and then looks at me. Then I do the same and shut the door, quietly. I must be wasted. “Crash on the couch if you like.” I’ll still say this, it’s been a rough few hours, I’m standing inside this one floor flat, on the kitchen tiles, with a cup of tea, in a double bed sheet, looking worse for wear, but I need some form of warmth. “Thanks. For like…”

Then she sits next to me on the huge ripped up leather sofa, and grabs my shoulder, pulling half of me towards her. All of a sudden, the tea doesn’t matter. She starts to kiss me, and grabs onto me. Well, I drunkenly reciprocate, like anyone would. I don’t remember her name right now, but names got left on the doorstep. My hands on her torso, it’s odd, but amazing. I’m jerked towards her and then her room upstairs.

The next morning, I wake up, head smashed in like a box that’s been sat on by someone heavier than its contents, and the cup of tea’s there, lying on a mantelpiece, the cup grinning its message Have a nice day! whilst I try to contemplate just where the hell I am.

Her and everything hits me suddenly, and I smile, but still grimace. I’m missing my toga sheet. All I’ve got are pants, a phone, wallet full of receipts and two shoes with odd socks. Where the fuck is my sheet?

As much as I search I can’t find it. Instead, the smell of last night lingers. Her perfume. 

But what was her name?