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Nameless

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Even though they had only met a few hours before in that crowded, noisy bar, things had felt right enough between them to lose their respective friends and find their way back to her apartment.

As the door closed behind them, they could still hear the sounds of the revelers on the Strip before quickly falling into each other’s arms and continuing their kissing, hands now traveling everywhere. Soon they were tumbling out of their clothes and onto the bed. The feel of her smooth skin on his was intoxicating. She wrapped her long, tanned legs around him and they sunk into a blissful rhythm.

It was crazy, he didn’t even know her name, yet there he was, hands on her round, supple hips as he took in her impossibly beautiful body, but most of all those eyes: blue, deep and eternal, like the sun-dappled sea, inviting him to dive into another world.

This was no cheap one night stand, he told himself. This was an act of serendipity, so unlike his one and only previous experience of a holiday romance which had quickly soured when he had woken the following morning to find the girl and his wallet gone.

Later as they lay on their backs, he wondered if he had thought or spoken aloud the words I love you, just as he came. He couldn’t be sure. He didn’t care: He felt as if he had been shot full of morphine or some other wonder drug. The endorphins ran out of every pore and nerve ending on his body like a series of breaking waves.

He woke to the sound of birdsong while another sun-kissed day awaited him beyond the window blinds. He felt refreshed as if he had slept for a decade. Then, like a gift came the memories of the previous night.

Had he really said he loved her? Whether he had or not, it was academic: he felt good. Good? Who was he kidding? He felt like a child on Christmas morning, tingling with giddy excitement.

He turned over to find the other side of the bed empty. Could he have dreamed last night? He couldn’t have, he reasoned: the room he had woken in was definitely not his own, and the smell of her perfume lingered on the sheets.

The memory of last night returned with more conviction than ever. All the same, he wondered where she was. He needed to gaze upon her face again and see its beauty illuminated by the morning light. He needed to stroke her face, to kiss her lips. He needed to ask her name; he needed…to use the toilet.

He suddenly became aware of an urgency in his bowels. He got out of bed and tried the bathroom door. Locked, unlike his bowels which were granting him little in the way of reprieve. He tried it again and was just about to call out when he realised the door was adjoining to the next room, which her friend undoubtedly shared, along with the toilet.

He scuttled back to the bed to find his clothes or his boxer shorts, at least, so he could gain access to the bathroom with some degree of dignity. He quickly found out they were nowhere to be seen. He was suddenly visited by that night two years ago in Magaluf, and the sickening feeling of the morning after. That same feeling was growing in his gut like a malignant tumor.

He had another quick, desperate look around the bed, hoping to prove himself wrong, but he already knew he would find nothing. He felt the tumor grow ever more pervasively inside him, eating away at his trust and idealism while something which smelt like death threatened to work its way out of him.

He felt rage and frustration build within him. There was no way he was hammering on that door, insisting he be let in to use the toilet in a state of stark buck nakedness.

It suddenly came to him he could use the duvet to cover his modesty, but alas the realization had come all too late: Squatting on the floor, he soon felt his hands fill with his fecal matter. The smell was appalling: the result of excessive amounts of fast food and alcohol. The texture was, well it wasn’t worth thinking about if at all possible.

When his bodily waste had ceased oozing from him, he made an effort to stand up straight. This only resulted in him slipping in the excess shit between his feet. He put his hand out to steady himself only to leave an arc of excrement on the wall in front of him.

As he lay there, now spread full length in his self-made quagmire, he cursed himself. He couldn’t believe what was happening. What the fuck was he going to do if someone walked in to find him naked and filthy?

He reached over and grabbed the sheet off the bed and tried his best to clean first himself and then the mound of shit from the carpet, glancing up anxiously now and then at the door.

Finally, he gave up. He had made the mess even worse if that was possible. So he knelt back, caked in shit, looking like a cross between a dirty protester and an exhausted Jackson Pollock, admiring his latest, albeit, drunken artistic breakthrough.

Fuck it, he thought, she’d fucked off with his clothes and his idiotically bulging wallet. She was most probably checking into a better class of accommodation while he knelt in his shit. He’d be lucky if he ever saw her again.

In one last act of anger, he grabbed a handful of filth and threw it at the door. He was about to bury his head in his hands but immediately thought better of it. It was then he saw what could only be the corner of his wallet poking out from beneath the bed. From somewhere deep inside him, something even more awful began to make its presence felt.

A second later he heard a noise from behind the door. The door knob began to turn and a globule of feces hung off it for a second before sliding off like warm, unwanted fudge cake.

The door opened and, there she stood, frozen in the doorway, radiant and looking even more beautiful than he had remembered. Behind her, a maid held a tray loaded with a delicious looking breakfast. The maid’s nose wrinkled at the smell which wafted out from the room.

He looked back to his lover. His nameless, one-night lover. A woman who would never now become his wife, or bare his children. Her eyes were still beautiful, only now wide with silent horror. In her arms, where his clothes, cleaned and freshly pressed.

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Author of: The River and Nameless and Other Stories.

Website: strickletone.com.

Follow David on Twitter and on Facebook

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Published inHumorous

One Comment

  1. Russell MacClaren Russell MacClaren

    Took a couple of unexpected turns, but wound up being a hand-full of a story. Nice job!

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