Something

That was when his mind began to drift towards the warmth of her memory and the brief time that they had spent together. It had been ages since he had felt this way, and he found it unsettling to have his mind in such a place while he was in a state of exhaustion, but unable to sleep. Was it the wine? Or the 6.5 beers that he drank earlier in the evening that brought the memory of a glorious summer crisp and vivid while the seagulls squawked like hungry vultures outside his window. Was it that woman with the dirty hair that he had his eye on earlier in the evening? Dirty and messy the way he used to like her to wear it. His thoughts quickly flashed to his walk home in the predawn when he passed a large touring bus parked outside a tall hotel and it reeked like an outhouse while the sound of the motor rang out into the empty street which amused him to no end, such a fancy bus, but it still stunk like a sewer. Then he thought of her skin, and he knew that it would always keep her young and fresh, holding the memory of her in that place that he could never visit again. Finally he fell asleep, and within seconds he was tucking her hair behind her ear before pulling her closer to tell her that he missed her, just quiet enough so she could barely hear what he was saying. But the moment passed as quickly as it arrived and the inevitable anger began to seep into his dreams and stories replayed themselves in one of a multitude of variations causing him to cry out in his sleep. The neighbors could hear him, they always heard him, stumbling around at night, throwing his keys across the room in futile defiance or fucking on the couch by the window with the stereo blasting music he was too old to listen too; a snippet of their morning conversations were often devoted to his antics, they thought he was pathetic. Morning arrives for our hero too, but there is no one to talk to. Instead he lays there thinking about death, and that although he is afraid of it, he hopes that it will come sooner than later, and ideally quick and unexpected.

Climbing out of bed, towards the stereo on the other side of the room he stands in his underwear, scratching his crotch in the brightness of a new day. Then he turns the stereo on, and a song that was sent to him by his lover while he was sleeping begins to play, and he mumbles under his breath, that it must have been the song.