January 1, 2009

She was tired; exhausted, even.

She'd spent New Year's Eve out with friends, drank too much champagne, crashed in a strange bed, woke with a mouth like a monkey had slept in it, then nibbled on cold toast before finally returning home.

She arrived bearing gifts, too: A highly prized Big Mac and fries, a massive bottle of dandelion and burdock, two packets of pickled onion Monster Munch - in the old "new" bags, naturally - and a copy of The Times.

She was hungry. She took a bite from the Big Mac and ate a couple of fries, but she wanted something a bit more, well, New Year's Day.

She got what she wanted: a squat, chilled slice of blackcurrant cheesecake, a fresh, fat orange cut into eighths, and two Lindt dark chocolate balls from the fridge, served up together on a plate placed on top of the duvet.

She ate, drank some water, stretched out. She wanted her back to stop hurting. She wanted a back massage.

She turned onto her front and stretched again, and she smiled as she felt the (slight) weight of a body nestle itself onto her behind.

She groaned, then, as the fingers ground into the sinews at the bottom of her neck, and into her shoulders, and then down by the spine, and out towards her shoulder blades...

But then she stopped smiling as suddenly as he had stopped massaging.

"Justin," she asked. "Did you just actually fart on me?"