Morning breath

There is morning breath. Not sure if it's his or mine. Cannot decide on the winds in the room; the air conditioning from the hallway.
         Uncertain of exactly how he ended here; last night's still being sort of dim. The light bulb going soft after the third shot of Jaegermeister. Then heading off to New York.
         Was he with me by then?
         I am almost sure I never went to Cruz.

I shut the eyelids. Not yet under any strain of headache, but I usually don't allow myself to fall as hard as last night. I know I don't act is if I've lost it. Still seem very much in control of the situation.
         This is why I don't do it. There is no appreciation for awaking next to a stranger. Besides, I need a new apartment.
         Re-opening the eyes. Hello world! Very conscious.
         Did we take a cab home last night? Unconscious.
         I can feel the muscles in his body starting to twitch. No reason to prolong the process. So I turn sideways, then switches back. He is awake now, at least almost. Soon. I can offer a cup of tea. Then I should head out. There is a full Sunday to take care of. Besides, I experience too little of the city.
         As I was talking to a colleague at work, her telling me of how she and the husband head out of the city at least one weekend every month. Mine realising how my routine has been the same ever since I moved to the city. I have not seen more than I would have time to see in two months - not counting bodies and sometimes faces. I walk the same streets to work every day, run the same paths, visit the same bars, gym, grocery store (almost), clothing stores, caf (though those are several).
         I am seen as a well-experienced person. By colleagues, friends, and lovers. The family always sharing the sentiment of how they were left by their youngest son. How he is never coming home.

Morning, he says. I think he is trying to smile. Sound charming.
         Morning.
         Did you sleep well?
         I did.
         Headache, much?
         Not really, I say. Short tone. I cut him off. He is not sort of handsome with somewhat blonde locks. Maybe a little reddish. Though there are definitely no freckles. Do you want tea, I ask him.
         Coffee?
         I only have instant.
         That's fine. He is smiling. He had a nice body. I can see how he is a little soft at the edges. Blue eyes. He is somewhat tall. At least six feet.
         I get out of bed, and as I walk towards the bathroom I see his eyes fixed on my ass. It's good. I know I have a good ass. He can look.
         Soon he'll be gone.

Nice apartment, he says. I hope you didn't mind mine using your used towel.
         I don't mind, I tell him. He has showered and put on clothes and sits down at the kitchen table and looks to me.
         I feel so tall here, he says. I like these chairs, he continues, almost like barstools. This apartment is sort of how I imagined I would live.
         Yes?
         Yes, you know, bright colours, not too much furniture, the high stools and the gas oven. Besides, I like your bed.
         Are you staying I'm a gay stereotype?
         He laughs. And just when I reach the fridge, the pot screams. I pour the boiling water into his instant coffee before I make my tea. I much prefer the smell of bergamot to that of the brown powder making the water almost black.
         May I ask, he says. What is your name?
         Jon, I say. You?
         Knut.
         Yes?
         Yes. Originally from Oslo, he says.
         I cannot help but to laugh.
         I guess I am the Norwegian clich Right?
         Right. I still smile at him. Here is your coffee.
         And he has a sip of it.
         I am sorry to disappoint, I say. But I am not too rich on breakfast material; just some rye bread and cheese.
         No marmalade? He tries to sound shocked.
         Of course, I say. Do you want me to make you some scones as well?
         That would be great. But I don't want to extend my one night stand-invitation too hard. Maybe another time?
         Maybe, I say.