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I was drunk, much drunker than usual. Despair can do that to you, and that's a fact. You go out and get pissed and it doesn't seem to be working, so you drink more, and still it doesn't work, and then – wham – it hits you and there you go, right down to the ground – or the floor, as in my case. I didn't even trip over anything. I just fell, my legs folding up on themselves and just pitching me into the comforting embrace of the floor.
I hadn't realised until then just how disgusting it was down there. I'd always thought that the carpet was quite thick and springy, but as soon as I was lying facedown on it I realised why. It wasn't quite mould but it sure as hell wasn't moss, either. It had a strange, furry texture and it raised puffs of dust when I flailed about. Some of it went up my nose and I sneezed. That was also pretty disgusting. I was making myself feel sick, but I had no desire to lose the numbing effects of too much cheap whiskey just yet. So I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, watching it slowly turn circles around the lightbulb. It was dancing so happily that I hummed a tune in accompaniment, alternating between a waltz and a rumba depending on how far I moved my head.
I had no idea how long I lay there, but my fingers were blue with cold by the time he found me. The rumba had graduated to some kind of post-modern wailing only audible to the rabid bats that I was sure lived in the ceiling. My terror that Jan had cleaned them away when I wasn't looking only increased when they failed to respond to my summons.
"Bela!"
I opened my eyes and focused with difficulty. "The bats," I said.
"What? Bela, wake up."
"I'm awake!" I tried to lift my head, but it was too heavy. I flapped a hand instead. "Jan. Jaaaan. Hello. I'm drunk."
He leaned over and I was enveloped in his coat, a long black woollen thing that smelled of cold and chocolate. I inhaled happily and then grabbed at his lapel. "We have bats," I said, dragging his head down to mine. "Over there."
He looked very serious. "I know."
"You know?" I was horrified. "But what will the neighbours say?"
He considered very carefully, and then whispered, "I killed them."
"The bats?"
"The neighbours."
I relaxed my grip on his coat. "Thank God for that."
"You should go to bed," he said, sitting back on his heels.
I grinned. "You look like a cactus."
"Have I turned green?" Jan worried at the cascades of his fringe.
"Just spiky," I said. My idly flapping hand raised itself high enough to pat at the mass of backcombed blond. I managed to dent the front part, and so tried to make amends by fluffing it out again.
"Now you look like a mushroom," I said, nodding sensibly.
He batted me away before I could inflict further damage. "Is that what you've been doing, hmm? Mushrooms?"
"I'm just drunk! I told you!"
He lifted my head and shoved a cushion beneath it, then got to his feet and left me alone. I eyed the room from my new vantage point. Now I could see the door to his bedroom and the rubbish that overflowed the bin beside the television. It was like some kind of sculptural mess. Installation art. Perhaps it would win a prize, if we entered it into a competition. I was about to call out and suggest this when Jan came back, carrying the quilt from my bed.
"You're cold," he said simply as he draped the cover around me, tucking the ends in as carefully as my mother used to do when I was a child. It was a small enough act, but it made the tears well up. I blinked furiously and shook my head until my hair whipped across my face.
"Bela." He touched my cheek with the back of his hand, pushed away the fall of hair. If he felt the dampness of my tears, then he said nothing. It was comforting, the feel of his hand warm against my skin. I could have fallen asleep with him there, but then he moved.
"I don't want you to puke in your hair again, like last time."
"I'll be sure to puke on the floor instead," I said. "It might make it cleaner. Although I could puke on the artwork and then we could sell it for more money."
Jan looked around the room far too quickly. It made me dizzy just to watch him, and so I told him not to move anymore or I would puke on him. He sat patiently and waited, still confused. "What artwork?"
I tried to explain, lost the end of a sentence, and then tailed off when I realised that he was laughing. The sound jarred my skull slightly, but I love the way he laughs and so I let him carry on.
"I don't know the difference between drunk Bela and sober Bela," he said eventually, smiling at me. "Both are equally as crazy."
"Drunk Bela conquers the world lying down!" I tried to make a heroic gesture and managed to hit him with my fingertips. "Shit, sorry. Your face got in the way."
He started to laugh again, but silently this time.
"Why don't you drink?"
Immediately he became serious and gave me a gentle look. I asked him the same question every time I got drunk, and I never seemed to remember the answer. One day I'm sure he'll just walk away from me, but so far he always gives me the same reason:
"Because I don't like the taste."
I drew him nearer and whispered hoarsely, "Neither do I."
"Then why bother?"
It was a difficult question. "The effect," I said at length. "I like the effect."
"You like puking in your hair?"
I gave him as sharp a look as I could manage, but the question was guileless. "You should still try it," I retorted. "You might like it."
Jan started to shake his head, but I managed to take hold of his collar and drag him down towards me. Fuck knows what I was intending to do. Just because I stank of the stuff didn't mean I'd taste like Jack Daniels, too, but obviously some part of me believed that that was the case. They say booze gets rid of inhibitions. It also makes you do the most fucking stupid things known to man or beast. So I kissed him, like I'd wanted to do for ages.
His lips were soft and sweet, warmer than mine. I felt his hesitation, the sudden tension, and he almost said something. I licked at his mouth, trying to coax a response. He didn't move away, but neither did he kiss me back. Stupidly, I slung an arm around his neck and pulled him closer. The muscles in his back were rigid, but gradually I felt them begin to unlock as I kissed him. He closed his mouth again, giving me only enough to be able to convince myself that yes, we really were kissing, and it was good, and he liked it.
I was about to make even more of a fool of myself when he lifted his head and broke free of my grasping embrace.
"I still don't like the taste," he said kindly, and drew away from me.
And with that, he went to bed and left me alone on the floor. He turned off the light and I was plunged into darkness. I couldn't sleep, but relived that last moment over and over. The kindness was the worst. I would rather him have hit me, hated me. At least then I would know for definite how he felt. Instead I thought he pitied me. Pity was for failures. I didn't want to be a failure in his eyes.
Eventually, I fell asleep. When I woke again, I threw up on the carpet. I even got the stuff in my hair, just as he'd predicted. I could puke to cue. At least I wasn't a failure in everything.