"I am not amused," he said quietly, just after he got out of bed. I was lying, still, trying to find a good reason why I had bought that stupid lighter, when I had already bought a box of matches. A cool breeze crept inside his small room, playing with the curtains which usually hung languidly, nailed to the wall above the window. Familiar lyrics flowed ceaselessly through my head, drowning in the psychedelic confusion of thought and memories.
He leaned on the desk and said: "I am not amused." I really didn't give a fuck about his lack of amusement, or even about its complete absence. I just wanted to stare at the ceiling, feeling the breeze as it glided across every inch of my aching body. He finally went out of the room. I didn't know why. Didn't really care, either, not as long as I could spend a few moments without looking at his brooding face.
I had a really weird dream during the twenty minutes of sleep I had gotten. My right cheek had swollen up and I found myself on a balcony with a dentist. Don't ask me what I was doing with a dentist on my balcony. He was there. He stuck his tongue in my mouth (the dentist, yes) for some technical, orthodontist reason. He then proceeded to push two of his fingers inside of my mouth, chafing my swollen cheek. Again there was this obvious connection between medicine and what he was doing. What eluded me was the medicinal purpose of his acute erection I could feel on my left thigh. The implications of the dream are, I guess, self-evident. At least I didn't feel violated after waking up.
"I am not amused." He came back, smelling sweet, the draft carrying the taste through the air, making me feel I am in for a treat. His words, however, ruined the magic.
I got up from the bed and picked up the clothes from the floor. His dark, warped hair lingered on my chest. He blew it away and said:
"I am really not amused."
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