“I have to go.”
“No, you don’t.” He slides on top of me, pinning my wrists onto the bed.
“Yes, I do.”
Our faces are almost touching.
“I have to take my medication,” I blurt, surprising myself.
He rolls onto his back, releasing me.
“What are you taking?”
I consider this question because he is a surgeon. If he doesn’t know it’s a mood stabiliser and anti-psychotic, he’ll certainly know it’s prescribed for mental disorders.
But fuck it, I’ll probably never see him again anyway.
I wait for him to shy away in disgust yet his leg is still leaning against mine.
Our heads continue to rest on adjacent pillows.
We blink at each other.
I silently challenge him to say something un-PC; crack a bad joke; or patronise me.
But he holds my gaze.
“I’m on that.”
I can’t think of any response and we burst out laughing simultaneously. For the next ten minutes as I’m getting dressed, booking a taxi, and walking out the door, we cannot stop ourselves exploding into fits of laughter whenever we look at each other.
It’s the most honest conversation I’ve had in months.