Velvet.

A Story by Viktorsha

7 a.m. My bony fingers are soaked in the greasy residue of my face. I still haven't opened my eyes but the blotchy scarlet emulsions are already glutting each drunken segment of last evening. There's nothing worse then waking up hungover and delusional in someone else's bed. I roll over to check if he's still asleep, but as I turn all I witness are the droughty creases and wrinkles imprinted his back. I didn't want to see his face. Not that morning. Not anytime soon. Taking a girl to a run-down bar, getting her conspicuously drunk and begging to stay the night together was never my idea of a romantic first date. But there I was laying down next to a half-naked boy who thinks he had already conquered the semantics of being a man.