Naked and horny like a toad, there are people in the garden I don’t recognise yet who recognise me. Looking down at them through the window, they wave in my direction, but I duck out the way. Wiping the sweat off with a handful of dirty curtain, the night is still young, but I’m already wasted. There was a girl chatting to me somewhere in the kitchen; she had nice lips and an even nicer pair of shoes. They were sparkly and silver, and at some point, I asked if I could take a photograph of them. Convincing her I wasn’t a pervert, she let me do my thing. Checking my phone, the image is right there. Jumping on the spot with her feet floating inches off the ground, the shimmer of those silver shoes is almost blinding. But there are other photos I don’t remember taking. There’s one of a dog biting a balloon, and then one of some guy puking in the downstairs toilet with his arms wrapped around the cistern. Then there are those of me fooling around in the garden with the group that had been waving at me. In each one, I look as if there’s nothing wrong; as if I was just like them, for the smile on my face is as big as the moon. Shaking my head, I light a cigarette and sit on the edge of the bed. Things were supposed to get better, and yet they’re just the same. The same old lies and the same old mask used to fool those around me into thinking I’m okay. Drunkenly chastising myself for such weakness, on the carpet by my feet, I notice the right shoe belonging to the girl in the kitchen. Then, near to the wall, the left one on its side. Blinking away the sweat that keeps dripping into my eyes, as if by magic, an arm drapes itself over my shoulder and rests against my chest. Then comes the touch of soft hair and lips upon my neck, and in the centre of my back, what feels like an erect nipple. This shouldn’t have happened, but once again the cosmos has different ideas.