I didn’t remember her bed being this large, or even the volume of her parents’ house, or the fact that it was suddenly a mansion in the middle of nowhere. Despite our years of separation, she was the same as ever. I had no idea exactly why she was putting up with my cartoonish buffoonery, but since she was decidedly DTF, I didn’t really care either way.
“Aaaaaaaaah,” she said, having toked from a spliff about the size of her forearm. (I’m actually quite intolerant towards the stuff, but I wasn’t going to object to her partaking in a massive attack of the chron, on the condition that I got to call it that.) “That’s the stuff.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Didn’t you want to have sex after this?”
“Oh, yes, yes I did,” she agreed agreeably. “But we can’t do that with my parents in the next room. Let’s go to the summerhouse.”
“Oh, good idea!” I ejaculated, despite the fact that I wasn’t aware there even was a summerhouse. Their garden wasn’t even big enough for anything more than a shed.
We made our way through various bits of the set from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari to get out into the garden. The promised summerhouse was a bit like a cross between the TARDIS and the bus from Spice World, insofar as the fact that it was bigger on the inside and happened to be fully carpeted, wallpapered and furnished, including a bed which had clearly been put there for the purposes of having sex.
We lay on the bed for a while, mutually wondering why we weren’t yet doing anything, when we had decidedly come here with the intention of Doing Something. In the end, when no sex had happened, one of us – I think it may have been me – came up with the idea of going back into the house and sneaking up to her room.
This then happened. She was good at sneaking in, cat-like, and entered her room silently. I was a little less successful, by which I mean that I managed to trip over a metal bucket, landing hard on a door to a cupboard full of metal tools which cascaded downwards with a cacophonous concerto of clangs, and although they all somehow missed me, both hands managed to land on top of a brazier which just happened to be there…
It was my swearing which eventually woke up both parents. My blistering hands soothed under a running cold tap, I drew myself an icy bath which I sat shivering in, both hands submerged, when her mother came in, still wearing the dressing gown I remember her owning. She didn’t seem surprised to see me in her house.
“What’s going on, young man?” she asked, to which I couldn’t really give a concise answer.
I mean, could you, given the above sequence of events?
“I burned my hands,” I said, showing my braised red palms.
It was her scream that finally woke me up.
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