"Restless?"

The needle gently nudged the record with a cold metal kiss turning a scratch into the powerful opening strums of Anarchy in the UK. Viewing the mustard/baby shit combo wallpaper with a daffodil pattern behind the record player, Stim now raised his head, standing up from his slouching position. The cheap, worth-pretty-much-shit off-brand player creaked quietly in the background as a sort of mournful effect track backing up good old Johnny Rotten. Stim's hand moved slowly up and down on his side: he was scratching his itching side, a probable side effect of using way too much off-brand washing powder. Actually, everything in his tiny Camden apartment was pretty much off-brand. An off-brand life, as a 1990's hipster poet would imaginably describe this oh-so-good slice of life.

Lying in the bed next to the record player, with the condiment paper backdropping, lay a guy he had met three hours ago in Camden Market. The guy was extremely thin: Stim could easily make out the lively human skeleton patterns of his ribs and pelvis bones. His body looked like something stolen out of Trainspotting, a canvas of drug abuse, street life, fast love, quick pound and deft suck and tuck in a cold dark London back alley. Stim, however, in his mind, refused to see these paint strokes as imperfections on this God's lovely creation. To him, this man was an escapee from the classic paintings, the most beautiful and pure depictions of Christ sprung to his mind. He sat on the side of the bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping cherub, still staring at the naked, almost aggressively truthful beauty of the human body.

He moved his face as close as he dared. breathing a hot breath at the sleeper's mouth, then quickly pecking a tiny little sleepytime kiss on his mouth. His target made a tiny quiet half-asleep noise which sounded something like "Mmmhgm". Stim grinned, his tobacco-stained upper teeth showing in his trademarkish style the girls on fourth grade used call "irresistable". He slowly lied down and rested his head down on a small brown pillow, still warm from his own body. Closing his eyes, he let out a long, restful breath, which also seemed to relax his whole body going out. He smelled the scent of the sleeper, catching an aroma of sweat, cheap mouthwash, and lip gloss. Mr. Sleepyhead had now silently turned his head sideways, and was facing him, a scene Stim witnessed while looking at him with only one eye halfway open. He grinned again, having no control over his own feeling of simple joy and childish happiness. "I think I love you", he said half-consciously, almost only thinking the words in his mind. He was not heard.

Outside, a church bell rang three times; slowly, but surely, going the three necessary bongs. On the third bong, Stim got up, making sure that he didn't disturb his sleeping friend. He browsed the mismatch pile of clothes and underwear on the apartment floor, trying to spot his dirty broken jeans. He came across them on the top of a wooden bench. He pulled the Levi's on top of his goodwill underwear. and started heading for the door. He left him 85 pounds and the rest of the cigarettes on top the second pair of jeans. Johnny Rotten had progressed to bigger and better things as he closed the door behind him, entering the dark and lonely hallway.