She was leaning over the wash basin, brushing her short brown hair. She had her trousers on. I admired the arse, remembering it from hours before. She doesn’t know I’m awake, watching her through one eye. She finishes, and gathers her kit from the floor. I close my eye, sensing she is about to look at me.
When I look again she has a white jumper on, but no bra. I know this because I can still feel it next to my leg. I wonder if she’ll get it before she leaves. Will it hold sentimental value for her? Will she tell her mates? “This is the bra I almost left behind in the hostel in London where I shagged the American whose name I didn’t know, then left before he woke up. Almost left the bra wrapped around his right knee. It was quite dear though, and I would have been gutted to lose it.” Then they’ll giggle, tell stories of similar encounters and brush each other’s hair.
She’s back at the wash basin, trying to get her hair sorted. Her arse is sorted. Round like an apple. I wonder if she’ll be back here again tonight. I don’t know her face, it was dark, but I could pick that arse out of a line-up. Testify against her in front of the magistrates if I needed to.
My eyes were closed when the door slammed. I reckon she’s coming back. She left the bra.
20 December, 1999