At 10 p.m., I started to miss my cellphone. I knew where it was. It lay in the second drawer of the cabinet beside my part of the bed. It was under a sweater and a book. It had been turned off. I was now starting to get drunk.
At 11 p.m., a fight broke out. I had stopped counting how many drinks I’d had. This one guy (with half an eyebrow missing) clocked this other guy (wearing a winter cap), quite hard on his nose. The cap one then kneed the eyebrow-missing one in his crotch. The fight ended.
At midnight, I was properly drunk, and my hand was itching, kept going to my pocket, where the void left by my phone made me feel slightly more naked. I wanted to check if you’d called. I have voicemail. I could sift through messages empty except for your breathing, listening to them over and over. But what would be the point of that?
At 1 a.m., the barman chucked me out. I was out of money, and still not as drunk as I’d like. I sat in the doorway of a school. I watched it rain, and I watched dogs with their fur made spiky by the water bounding about and falling over each other. I went out into the rain, and left my boots in a puddle.
At 2 a.m., I was at home. I was naked, and still my hand kept touching my hip. I lay in the dark room, staring up at the ceiling. I traced your body in the cracks. I fell asleep with the ghost of your breath on my neck, and my heart aching as if your hand was on my chest. The phone was still off. I didn’t want to know.