Another night out with Julie, another great time of drinking and dancing and just basically getting high on each other's company. She suggested we go back to my place this time and I think was a bit surprised that I was so reluctant (what kind of impression does it give her about my place? Maybe she just assumes that I'm your typical bloke who never does a lot of cleaning). So we went back to her place again, and this time we made love – going at it in that nervous and energetic first time way.
In the morning I realised something. Twice now I've slept in her bed and neither time did I dream, let alone have nightmares. It was the kind of peaceful and blissful sleep that I'd almost forgotten existed.
Well we had breakfast together and then she went off to meet some friends for a late lunch and an afternoon playing music (she's a violinist, though I've never heard her wield a bow). I told her I was going home, but instead walked the streets for awhile (my toe is much better now, I must have only bruised it). To kill time I went to Oxford Street and looked around the shops and window browsed in the cold and bought myself a couple of Starbucks coffees. Finally though, I had to summon the courage to go back to my place.
When I opened the door it wasn't with the same sense of certainty that someone else had been there, but my flat still seemed very strange to me. I felt isolated and alone within it. And after such a good night, I suddenly had the sensation of being really cut off from the world.
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