LITMIR.BIZ

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He can’t remember the music she was playing, but it was that time of the night when everything merges into doof-doof bass.

      2) The way she danced, her braids twisted up on her head, to prevent exactly the kind of injury she had inflicted on him. The first thing he noticed. She moved like she was happy. And she smiled when he caught her eye. He liked that. Not too cool to smile.

      3) The way she plucked the cigarette impatiently from his mouth when they were outside, still strangers, bound only by the camaraderie of being smokers, having to stand out in the cold with the fuzzy promise of emphysema in the distant future. They’d been talking about Motown and techno. That Rodriguez documentary. The bankruptcy. All the easy conversational set-pieces. He thought she was going to take a drag, and instead she kissed him.

      4) Making out in her car. There are snapshots in his memory, Instagrams really, because they’re blurry round the edges: following her down a hedged-in alley round the side of a house to a detached cottage, kissing her neck while she messed around with the keys, the smell of her skin making him crazy, swearing, laughing, her sharp ‘shhhh’ as the door fell open and they tumbled inside.

      5) The shapes of furniture in the darkness as she led him straight through to the bedroom. Both of them drunk. Or him, definitely. He could tell by the way the room went all tilt-a-whirl for a moment. Kissing, tugging off clothes. The way she felt inside.

      Shit. Did they use a condom? The thought makes his stomach flop, but not for the reasons it would have a year ago.

      She gives one little rabbit snore, and he ducks as she flings out her arm again. No good. He can tell by the clarity of his thoughts that he’s not going back to sleep. He has become an expert on his own insomnia. Usually it’s fear that jerks him awake in the middle of the night, heart racing. He leans over the side of the bed, fishing for his phone in his jacket pocket. Four forty-eight. That’s later than his average, which is usually around two in the morning. He should get laid more often. No shit, Sherlock.

      Jonno does not check his inbox, even though the number above the little envelope insists that he has new messages. New voicemail too, according to the digit attached to the cartoon speech bubble. It used to be that the only icons that could inspire such terrible dread were plague signs. A black X over the door.

      He opens the browser instead and looks up Jen Q. Only a couple of pages of search results, usually limited to a listing at a festival or a gig guide. A tiny profile on some music review site. But she’s social media-ed to the eyeballs. All the usual suspects and even a MySpace page, which means she’s probably a little older than he thought. He clicks through her selfies, inspirational quotes, self-promos. ‘Xcited 2b playing Coal Club 2nite. $5 cover!’ It’s all surface shit, posing for the world. He knows the feeling.

      His hangover is settling in. He’s going to need something to keep it at bay.

      He throws back the covers and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, waiting for the swirl of nausea to pass. Jen doesn’t stir. She has raccoon eyes from her mascara. Cate would never have gone to bed without taking off her makeup.

      It’s freezing out here. He tucks the cover up over the birds on her shoulder, pulls his jacket on over his nakedness, and staggers in what he hopes is the direction of the bathroom to find something for the vice around his head.

      He should write something. Anything. Take three steps in Detroit and you’re falling over a story. But they’ve all been done by the native sons. Fuck you and your Pulitzer, Charlie LeDuff, he thinks, patting down the wall to find the light switch.

      He flinches against the halogen and the reflection in the medicine cabinet – it’s not even merciless, it’s plain mean. He examines his face. The puffiness will go away once he catches up on his sleep. George Clooney rules: crow’s feet on a man are sexy, and the patches of white in his six-day scruff of beard are a badge of experience. Jesus. Thirty-seven years old and sleeping with DJs.

      Not bad going, he grins at himself. Ignoring his inner troll, which snipes, Yeah, but she’s no Cate, is she?

      You don’t know that, he thinks. She could be. She could be really smart and deep and funny. I could follow her round the world, a new gig in a new city every night, write in hotel rooms.

       Yeah, ’cos that’s working out so well for you right now.

      ‘Lost?’ Jen says, leaning on the door, wearing a hideous blue flannel dressing gown. Looking a little puffy herself – which is charming in its own way. She is idly rubbing at her collar bone, exposing a glimpse of smooth skin.

      ‘Oh hey. I was looking for an Advil. Or something.’

      ‘You try the medicine cabinet?’ Amused, she leans past him to pop it open on a clutter of cosmetics and medicine bottles, a packet of tampons that makes him avert his eyes like he’s twelve all over again, and, alarmingly, several needles still sealed in plastic. She reaches for a bottle and drops two aspirin into his hand. ‘You can use the glass by the sink. It’s clean. You coming back to bed?’

      ‘Yeah.’ He slugs the pills down, following her back into the bedroom.

      She shrugs the horrible robe from her shoulders like a wrestler and climbs back into bed. ‘I saw your look. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got what my grandma used to call “the sugars”.’

      ‘Uh?’

      ‘The needles. I’m diabetic. They’re back-up in case I run out of pens. What, you thought you’d hooked up with some junkie?’

      ‘It crossed my mind for a millisecond.’

      ‘Aren’t you glad we used protection?’

      ‘Did we?’ He shoves away the pop of disappointment. ‘I’m a little fuzzy. Not that it matters. Seeing as you’re not, you know, um.’ He is aware of how idiotic he must look, with his jacket zipped up and his cock hanging out. Smooth operator.

      ‘You don’t remember?’ But she’s smiling, the covers tucked up under her chin. ‘You’re hurting my feelings.’

      ‘You might have to remind me.’

      ‘Get in here,’ she says, lifting the blanket, tilting her head at the pack of Durex on the bedside table. He’s the kind of guy who can take a hint.

      ‘What were you dreaming about?’ he whispers into the perfect curved shell of her ear as he enters her.

      ‘Does it matter?’ she arches her back up against him, and right now it really doesn’t.

      ‘C’mon, wake up. You gotta go.’

      ‘Mmmmf?’ Jonno manages as she shoves him out of bed. He is confused for a moment, then he remembers where the hell he is. Hot DJ girl. You had your cock inside her. Nice work if you can get it, boychick.

      ‘But it’s still dark,’ he protests through the sleep glaze, even as he’s pulling on his socks. He stands on one of their used condoms. Squelchy even through his sock.

      ‘Hustle. I mean it.’

      ‘Did they start the zombie apocalypse already?’ He tugs on his shirt and realizes it’s backwards. He yanks it off and starts again. She is sitting cross-legged on the bed, naked, watching him and smiling.

      ‘You’re a funny guy, Tommy.’

      ‘Jonno.’ It stings much more than it should.

      Her hands fly to her mouth. ‘Oh jeez. Sorry.’ She starts giggling again. ‘Oh, that’s terrible. I’m so embarrassed.’ She tips forward, burying her head on her knees. She can’t stop laughing. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘The least you can do is buy me breakfast,’ he says in his best indignant voice. He pulls on his jeans and buttons his fly. At least he can’t screw that up.

      ‘All right. But only if you get out of here, right now.’

      He lowers his voice. ‘Is it zombies? Because if that’s the case, I think we should

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