Elderly woman on a small corner in Soho

We’re in bed the next morning, and I am brutally hungover.

Our hotel room is completely filled with sunlight, though the temperature is quite nice, and so I’m cowering under the blanket, literally moaning out loud, rolling around a bit in what is legitimate anguish.

I open my eyes, just enough to look outside, and see the glare of an airplane, at an extremely highly altitude, able to see it only because the sky is perfectly clear, allowing the faint reflection to make its way to me –

Seeing that I’ve opened my eyes, she leans her head in, obstructing my view, otherwise seated upright, close to the center of her side of the bed, which is closer to the window, her hair brushing up against my skin, drastically changing the scene from my drunken perch.

In my neediness, I enjoy the sensation of her hair, and the smell of her skin, so I deeply inhale, which she notices, bordering on disgusted with my condition, she says,

“Wake up you loser”, poking me through the blanket.

“No.”

“This is your fault –

I’m not spending all day in bed, this is my trip too, get up.”, she continues, this time, back to being seated upright, her ability to sit up adding consternation.

“No.”

Apparently in perfectly fine shape, she begins her merciless infantilization:

“Poor Charles –

Do you remember what you did on the walk to the car?”

“Somewhat, was it good?”, I reply.

“Not the best thing in the world, but the elderly woman you took to dancing with was clearly enjoying herself, so, well done, overall, I suppose.”

I pull the blanket totally over my head, partially in response, as she says,

“Fine, fifteen more minutes, then get up and take a shower, you stink.”

She leans over the edge of the bed, grabs her phone, which is resting on the floor near the bed, and disconnects it from the charger.

I can hear her connect to the room’s system, and, “Para Mais Ninguém”, by Marisa Monte starts playing, so I pull the blanket off of my head, the room so bright, my eyelids don’t do the job, as I can see the back of my eyelids lit up, in an inconvenient, fleshy color.

Nonetheless, I love the song, so I don’t give a shit what’s happening –

I hear the samba guitar, somewhere between classical, jazz, and flamenco, waking my mind, despite my body, so I smile, and she leans in, kissing the side of my forehead, but stops, and says,

“You smell like a tank of gin.”

“I know.”

“You’re such a loser.”, she says.

“I know.”

After the saxophone solo, she starts singing along, and I remember how beautiful her voice is:

Not quite keeping up with Monte’s subtle vibrato, but not really trying, either, instead with the clarity of a proper choir singer, leading me to tear up a bit, because it’s all so beautiful, and I’m emotional when I’m hung over.

“You fruit!”, she says, upon spotting my moment of weakness, due to overconsumption.

“Shut up, I love you.”

“Get up.”, she says, pushing me again under the sheets.

“No.”