The Morning After

It was a perfect summer morning. Bathed in the sun’s gentle pink radiance, he basked in the afterglow of the night before.

He wasn’t walking home; he was strutting home. There was a spring in his step, a song in his heart, and a shit-eating grin across his face. And for the first time in God knows how long – he knew precisely how long, almost to the hour, but was refusing to think of it this morning – he had something ,and someone, beautiful in his life.

The warm air and tentative breeze across his skin echoed what had happened only a few hours ago. He could smell flowers on the air and her perfume on his shirt. He was trying to act casual, as if last night happened to him every day.

Birds burbled liquid song from the roofs above him, as if the dawn chorus was applauding him and his exploits.

He passed a milkman and thought he saw his eyebrows raise a millimetre. He tried to emit “Oh yes, my friend, you and I, we know the score” vibes. Complicated vibes to give off.

He pulled some gum from his pocket. And to think, some people called this the walk of shame! Walk of pride more like.

He was aware of the saying Pride comes before a fall. But he hadn’t noticed the scrap of paper with her number fall from his pocket.