Elen

I open my eyes and blink as I see unfamiliar curtains.

It takes a while for the memories of last night to resurface. My brain feels rubbery, my thought process like cranking a rusty wheel. Oh yeah, I had a migraine--that always does it. I took new medication. It’s worked inasmuch as the headache has nearly gone, and remains only as a dull ache at the base of my skull, but my mouth tastes sour. That’s probably the Black Russians, though. I had a few. I shouldn’t have, but I was so unhappy. Thank God that Kane was there or else I might have drunk even more--

Kane!

I sit up too quickly, and my head spins. I close my eyes for a moment, then open them. The bed is empty, but a note lies on the duvet next to me.

I open it.

Elen,

I’m so sorry to leave you without saying goodbye, but I had to go, and I didn’t want to wake you. Please, take your time. Make yourself some coffee. And lock the door behind you when you go.

I hope you’re feeling better. If you’d like to see me again, here’s my number. If not, no worries.

Kane.

He’s written his mobile number at the bottom of the page.

I put my hand over my mouth. My heart hammers. He brought me back to his place. I’m in his bed.

I can only vaguely remember what happened. Everything’s blurred, as if I’m looking through a smeared pane of glass. Holy shit, I think I came onto him. And he turned me down. I cover my face with my hands. How fucking embarrassing. I tried to leave--I remember stumbling to the door, but after that… It’s all a blank.

Did he bring me here out of pity? Did we…? Oh my God, I can’t remember. If we did, I can’t have been very good. I slide a hand under the covers and feel around--I don’t feel like I’ve had sex, but that doesn’t mean anything. Surely I’d have some memories if we have? I’ve heard of people not being able to remember anything when they’re blind drunk, but I’ve never been like that. However, I haven’t taken this medication with alcohol before, either.

I close my eyes and search the dusty corners of my mind for sensations, images, anything to tell me that I slept with a stranger last night. I do remember his aftershave. And I think I remember his arms around me. He lay here, on the bed. But he had clothes on, didn’t he?

I slide my hands into my hair for a moment, then swing my legs around and sit up. Whatever happened, there’s nothing I can do about it now. It’s over, and thank God he’s not here this morning.

I’m still dressed, so I go into the bathroom and splash water on my face. I won’t use his shower, though--I’ll go home and get ready. I’ll be late for work, but I’m my own boss, so it doesn’t matter.

I come back out into Kane’s bedroom and spot the note. Picking it up, my gaze falls on the first word. My brow creases. The odd thing is that I don’t remember telling him my name. He said it several times, in the bar and here, though, so I must have told him.

My cheeks burn with shame. If you’d like to see me again, here’s my number. He’s just being polite. I couldn’t. I’d die if I saw him. I can’t believe I actually asked him to have sex with me. And he turned me down!

Fury is rapidly replaced by irritation. Of course he turned me down. I was practically unconscious. I half respect his decision, because it would have been so easy to take me to bed and screw me senseless. But he didn’t. He was the perfect gentleman.

Bastard. I hate him.

I flop back onto the bed. I don’t hate him, of course. He was gorgeous, and he was kind, and I suppose that’s what makes everything worse.

I lie there for a minute, then decide I’d better get going. Needing to get home, I decide not to take up his offer to use his coffee machine. But I do have a glass of water, and as I drink it I meander around his apartment. I don’t touch anything, because that seems too intrusive, but I glance at the books on the shelves. A few paperbacks--mainly fantasy novels. Quite a few history books, mainly about medieval and Renaissance Europe. And several trivia books--like many men, he appears to like top ten lists of anything and everything. I smile as I remember some of the facts he told me last night. I wonder whether the one about the bats turning left is true?

I look around for more clues about him, but there isn’t much to see. I get the feeling he doesn’t spend a lot of time here. There’s a PlayStation plugged into the TV with a few modern games, The Witcher and Dragon Age: Inquisition, confirming his interest in medieval-style fantasy worlds. Some magazines on model-making and art. Then I see his desk. It’s filled with tiny pots of paint, magnifying glasses, tweezers, glue. And right in the middle, his current work in progress. It’s a beautiful model of a girl--a princess--astride a dragon, balanced on a plinth to make it look as if they’re mid-flight. He’s halfway through painting it, and I drop to my haunches to examine the delicate brushwork. It’s amazing. There are a few printed pages of A4 next to it. I read it--it’s a fantasy story about the character he’s painting. It’s good, well-written. Did he write it?

I push myself up again, and walk slowly back through the room. He was nice, but I’m not ready to date someone else. The pain of breaking up with Dan is still too raw, and it wouldn’t be fair to see Kane during the rebound.

And then there’s the awful embarrassment of propositioning him when I could barely stand upright. I feel nauseous just thinking about it.

I collect my purse, pick up the note he left me, turn it over, and write on the reverse of it: Thanks, Kane. All the best, Elen.

And then I turn and leave without looking back.