Bed Friends

                                                      Bed friends

Briefly warm she squeezed her thighs all quickly warm while his back was turned, stretching for a skin. Skinned, his back stretched back her squeeze went slack, his eyes as cool as shoes. (Her eyes warm went cold in shivers sadly secret.) Salty sweet gone fishy flaccid the bedgrope done, she sat up damp, wanting hugs. The hot sheets cold hugged her thighs all clammycold; I have too much thighs.
Tom looked proudly down said:
                - That is well massive...
         She laughed to agree, then worried, my thigh?
         He rolled his skin flicking stones complaining, this shit is well shit, said, flicked stones on the floor, ball-bearings bouncing.
         - Where did you get it? (she, Emma, said.)
         - Morgan scored it from some dude in Catford. What the fuck he was doing there. He’s such a mongflap sometimes. It’s like, Morgan: no- this shit has got fucking boulders in it, d’you know what I’m saying?
         Tom sucked; soothing sucks seeped silky chilled into unsoothe lungs. He passed the spliff: she sucked slowly soothing her cold, her secret sad, her thighs all chilled the bedwarm cold.
  He was sitting far from her, looking for the remote. Her eyes longed at his back, counting moles.
Not quite stoned he flicked on the telly. A man pressing-up said press-ups are more easy if you have an aga. Tom flicked again and fell on Vanessa Phelps. Yik he said,
                - She is proper minging. Last year yeah (Tom was second-year yeah) there was this couple in D block, like... Ricky and Trina or something, and they went on Vanessa and got married on TV so they could like ponce a honeymoon.
                - That’s weird, said Emma sleepysmoking.
         - Now they’re like totally divorced. He smoked. They were only doing it so they could go to Falaraki. She was well HIV.
         Ms Phlups in his room sat with nacho dips on rizlagum. Fuck this shit he muttered hazydoped and flicked her off. Dopyhazed he groped from the bedgrope to where there was music.
                - D’you like The Scopes? he smoked.
         - Who? sleepysaid longing sleepy soft at his back.
         - They were at Barfly last week. Fucking awesome. They go on stage with like wheelchairs and bibs. Lead singer yeah’s got this kinda like digital voice box... proper BT advert.
         - Not heard them, she said longing softly for him back.
         - They’re well funny. They’re not actually disabled, though, he said.
         With her eyes all shy she fingertraced the back-shape all silky skin, all pale white back stretching pretty back come back.
         - I like it, she said listening; he nodded yeah, yeah nodding his head quite tranced, Stephen Hawkins yeah. Won’t you look at me, for just one minute? Have you forgot? Where you put your head? Up she sat bending her knees, hugless wanting words while Tom, he smoked.
Well that was good was it not was it good? Wasn’t it good, it’s what you wanted; wanting hotly in your pants, or wanting more or less while flicking the telly, texting why not there’s nothing on there’s nothing to do do me the do is done. And was it hot or did it pass the time. Now it’s cold; either way the happy warm is cold.
         Uuughhh over she rolled with hangover head and squashfaced into the pillow. He was smoking reading his phone. Ha no way he said. Ems unrolled her mouth from smoky pillow and shuteye mumbled, whaaaat?
         - Pikey Dave- got busted at Brixton tube. Bongdogs went gypo in his nobpocket and scoused an eighth. Pikey twat. He is well retarded.
         Ems dropped back in the pillow. What time is it? mouthed her lips.
         - Er... half-two, he said and passed the joint, not much left.
         She rolled the joint in her lips on her back counting cracks, the ceiling split from up to down. The room was small with bin brimming stale on cheap carpet grey, with bottles drunk kicked empty over, with lava lamp pink porn glob glowing.
         The cold damp lovebed dried and dead she spliffed at his breathing back: so what was that, she smoked. Twice now asked what was that, what d’you mean what was that? That was a shag. Get dressed. Shrug it shower it off get dressed.
         Tom twitched: her hand twitched to stroke his shoulder; she sat on it instead (her hand).
         His unstroked shoulder unaware twitched and hit the pillow.
         Just a shag. He scratched his arse.
         (is my belly big?)
         (look at me)
         Wait wait hang on a sec, he looked before to see where to put it; no need for looking now- remember?
         Em’s eyes shut to smoky nights on groovy floors: feet in four-steps left to right, cigs dragged coolly calm with vodka swigs all scented necks all scented breaths; and sucking cigs with eyes shut narrowed swaying swathed in hips in jeans in bellies tucked tight in- how easy then, how straightforward then, how just fun then huh? Just fun then to flash a wink sharing drinks from plastic cups. Met hours only before, in the kitchen where she sat smoking hangoverhead (got any cigs must’ve left them somewhere I’m Tom Ems chatting lazy amidst the mess, spring roll crusts, trays of foil and ash, flicking ash in foil)
         a few of us’re going out tonight, you wanna…
         yeah. why not.
         And purple strobes flash flash on shoes that glow and vanish flash flash. And lips sweet vodka sweet purse carefree kiss, quick snog and grab of bum grinning cheeky kiss on cheeky side of face.
         In the bog a friend would nudge and oh Ems shrugging casual he’s kind of cute I guess, wanna get drunk. And drunk on shoulders (unaware) swooning soft, soft swooning lips quite kiss quite easy, but drunk walking home holding drunken hands oh woops. Well, never mind just this one time, may as well you can fuck off first thing in the morning. 
         This is now the sixth time. Or… is it the seventh? Forget…
(Hey babes wot u doin? fancy a toke etcs pump and respect…)
         Playing now with his phone like you’re not here (same message different girl, maybe?)
         She looked stupid fondly on his tasty neck so crisp sharp applebite; looked puppyeyed on his pillow fringe, his smiling face smiling fading. She measured inches between his skin and her cooling flesh, passed back the spliff fondlingly at fingertips and wrist but wrist and fingertips unrespondingly cool at her flesh.
         Naked, uncomfortably naked, she pulled the sheets over her smoky skin the grassy smoky sheets, bleached in midweek sun. And under the sheets she knew kisses, remembered, carefree (she thought,); lovemarks digging down her back, scratching, stinging; digging now, stinging, longing, deeper than her back; inside.
         And outside, at his phone, she glanced (almost casual):
         - Who’re you texting?
         - Mm? Oh Claire about Dave.
         - Claire? she clowned then covered her trap.
         - Yeah Claire, he frowned. Bird from my course. Fucking Dave. Like you’re gonna snide a baggie at the pig barriers.
         - Yeah… Emma agreed, then urged oddly: what a pikey… cabbage.
         Tom’s frown puzzled.
         - Er… yeah, it said, then rolled over.
         Emma’s words like flat puddings flopped; she shuffled (dank, dead,) on the shrugsheets; uncomfy casual after several silence said:
         - That was weird what you were saying about Vicky and Nicky from Vanessa.
         - What? Tom mumbled, not straight away.
         - The HIV people, she said, careful, waiting.
         - Oh yeah. Proper weird. Total fuckbags, he said.
         She waited more for more to be said, waiting, then:
         - Cos like… they were just basically… you know… using each other. To get stuff.  D’you know what I mean?
         - Mm? Yeah. Listen, Ems, yeah, bit flaky as it happens. Might just grab a snoozo.
         She paused, thinking, then, thought, smiling tapped his wrists with warming words:
         - We we’re quite full on, weren’t we?
         - Hm? He glanced her in the eye. No it’s not that. It’s just the naughty substance. Gives me the sleeps. Especially in the afters.
         And proof of pudding (flopping) his lids, dopydrooped, rolled over and over he rolled again, oh, she said.
         Oh with sheets pulled tugtight considering his waist, his prickletum light curly hair her twitching hand, tiptapping fingers on chilly thigh, and sneaky then her hand slipped quickly warm around his waist.
         (what are you doing? what stupid          what)
         Slowly warned, Tom’s hand set straight the offence turned right over no offence, just a bit hot, yeah, d’you know what he means?
         Emma, stung, knew what he meant lolled on her back, in prostration, hands to her own.
         - God… was drifting off, she said like vague, well vague not very well; he didn’t believe.
She pulled the stingsheet comfortless to her mouth her nose (oh: stale,), oh empty, spent.  Her cold sad shivers shook her body (secretly).
         - Tom…
         - Yeah? streeech and rolling rubbing his eyes,
         the scopes they spazzed their bibs bash bash and shut right up, yeah wicked, the room fell quiet, went badvibe silent. Yeah? went he, what is it?
         Some fuzzy nothing noise buzzed bees in her ears.
         - Your neck is nice, she said.
         The buzz built hives in her drums. (gooey wax,)
         She said:
         - Are you all right?
         - Yeah. Why?
         - Dunno. Bit quiet.
         - Yeah just tired.
         Proper tired and everything yeah but he just like spazzed out of the shagsheets anyways, brushing all them backy bits off his pump patch, (massive surface area- right?) cos like… the bird was getting well clinging. And fuckin it was blatant wot her games plan was, all this yeah d’you wanna like ‘hang out’ an shit tomorrow night. Friday night?… it’s like… sorry babes but me and Justin are goin on the HP. Special Needs Markus’s got some taptap candy so we’re gonna be mishin it up the Muff yeah. Lados onlyo… Otherwise would be lovin it.
         And she like, her arms all like flopped and went up and down a bit and her head sort of went yeah on one side like some sort of motor neuron shit or something. And she went ‘sure yeah, I get the picture’.
         So he scratched his haircut and like breathed air an shit monged as fuck. It was weird like how all the birds went soppy mushy after a couple of pops, even when they were fit ones. Cos it’s like, in a general way of talking, you think it’s the mingers who’re the clingers. But in fact, turns out they’re all clingers streeetch ballscratch streeetch fuckin need a hotwash now. Yeah- clingers. Well peculiar.
         And like:
         - Am just gonna take a douche, yeah, babes? Feelin a bit… his digits sort of did this pittery-pattery thing- like rain or water or whatever like mimic motion down his chest- mingin? So…
         And she looked all sort of like… a shell, not on a beach shell, different, like… a shell but nothing inside, no muscles, (hence the motor neuron thing,) and then she did the head thing again, it was like… a nod. And so Tom (bit foggyfucked) went into the douche and unleashed it proper steaming. And it was kind of like, God she’s sitting there all depressed or something, sort of like this bird he’d been out with once.