I was due to be presenting a self-defence workshop at a local secondary school; one I shall not name in the interest of protecting both students and staff from my intention to publish. I knew even before I had purchased my 24-Hour Railway Pass that I had very little hope of finding myself upon the train come nine o’clock. Regardless, I rose promptly at a quarter past seven, bathed and dressed. My thoughts were slow, attempting to pierce through the fog of inebriated memory. Only one thing was solidly known:
Dawson Lacey was at the foot of my bed, depositing saliva into the carpet with a bottle of red wine (Its contents disposed, I assumed, through classical means) clutched by the neck in his right hand.
He awoke to the hairdryer’s wailing. I was relieved. You see, Dawson could have slept through an air raid as a young man, another manner in which we contrasted one another. I have always been eager to awaken with the sun while he would have rather repurposed the magnificent swirling colours of dawn into a blanket to aid his comfort.
That relief, of course, was diminished as he appeared, guilty as sin, a stricken expression upon his face in my entryway, having tumbled blindly down the staircase. He held, in one hand, the bottle still. The other, unsurprisingly, clutched an iPhone which had certainly seen a more fortunate existence in a previous life, the screen chipped and flickering.
I cannot, even now, really explain my actions which followed. I can only attempt to justify them in that he smelled rather rancid, of stale alcohol and sweat and his hair so badly required a scrub. I want to imply that I pitied him. That I acted as a human might when faced with a wounded animal. As if I was in a position to aid him.
A horrible decision. One entirely removed from my character, in addition, and one I have never claimed to pride myself on. But he was still Dawson, regardless of the items he relied on, and he was devastatingly warm.
We stumbled backward, vaguely attempting to locate the banister as an anchor. From there, matters progressed. I suppose I must have released him at one point or another- For oxygen, for release, for the purpose of ringing the Vice Principal of this extremely conservative, all-female Catholic school and coughing meekly- but I cannot claim to recall a single thing other than sheer heat.
