“Good morning, sleepy head.” Her voice was bright and warm, a comfort to my sore body.
“I think I bled on your pillow,” I groaned: my voice lower than usual with sleep.
“You can wash it for me if you want.”
I smiled, then winced. My face hurt more than my shoulder, which seemed to be masking the pain in my hip.
“Can you sit up?” she asked, “I’ve made tea.”
I groaned a bit, but managed to sit up and tried to place what was different about her. I rubbed my stubbly chin and took the cup from her. It was how she sat down that gave me a clue.
“I’ve never seen you in a skirt before.”
She was wearing a sky-blue pleated skirt and a black Metallica t-shirt; her hair looked a bit wild, although she’d tried to marshal it into a ponytail. She sipped her tea.
“I’ve never seen you out of one,” she said.
I flushed and tried to cover my legs with the duvet. She laughed again.
“So, are we calling the police?”
I felt a pit open up in my stomach. “No point,” I said, “would you like to go to the cinema instead?”
She nodded.