Peter opens his yes. White roof. He looks to his left, then to his right and recognizes his nightstand and the closed door that leads to the corridor. The sound of pots banging stoves comes from beyond. He closes his eyes, tries to remember.

A club, full of smoke, blue lights, a crowded bar and full drinks. He finishes his little dark cocktail and a voice whispers.

Nothing else. He opens his eyes. The noise has become the smell of eggs with ham and pepper. Whoever is cooking knows his taste. Peter is naked and wet. The sheets are sweat and semen-stained. The pillows run wild in the floor, no clothes in sight. Peter doesn’t remember with whom he spent the night. His nose tries to identify something in his bed but the only smell is his own: warm milk tinged with lemon. He goes to the bathroom, washes his face, ties his long black hair, scratches his ears and brushes his teeth. He has bags under his bloodshot eyes. He glances at the watch. 10 AM. He hears footsteps. The door opens.