I made her acquaintance in the ladies’ lavatory towards the end of a fantastic birthday bash held in the upstairs room of a north London pub. I was incoherently drunk, and I think she was too, because I can’t remember either of us managing anything more than gestures or monosyllables. She was a committed, even violent kisser. And because she seemed keen to wrap me up and take me home straight away, we left without saying our goodbyes. Outside on the pavement a cab with its light on appeared right on cue, and 20 minutes later we were back at her apartment where she shoved me backwards on to a low divan, tore off both of our clothes and sexually assaulted me.
In the morning, after stirring awake, we spoke sensibly, it seemed to me, for the first time. I asked her what her name was, and she said it was too early for conversation. A little later I heard her mutter to herself, ‘I can’t breathe.’ Then I felt her roll off the bed and heard her go to the bathroom and after that the front door open and close. Then I fell asleep again. When I woke next, the light edging the curtain said the day was now well advanced. I got up and went to the bathroom and noticed that the apartment was a well-equipped, expensive one, and that I was left alone in it. Discarded clothes were strewn all over the floor. I picked mine out and was wildly elated to find my wallet and phone intact. I dressed, then pulled on the curtain cord, revealing yet another miraculous October day. I thought about leaving a note saying it had been a wonderful relationship but it just wasn’t working out, but couldn’t find any paper. Then I exited the apartment and found my way out of the block with fewer difficulties than I’d anticipated.
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