The guitars were screeching inside his head. The vocals screeched, rattled, hissed through the music that wouldn’t leave his head: lying in the black field, memories start to move into my mind, visions of the red room, my bloodied face, her bloodied head.

Visions of the red room. He closed his eyes. He grew more excited. She noticed that and smiled. She had no idea. The man seemed to be fidgeting but gradually started to fade away, to turn into a shadow. When he looked at her she too started turning into a shadow. It was time.

She spoke.

“What?”

“Hello! Anybody home?”

“What… yes…”

“You look miles away”

“No… I’m here.”

“You were moving your head as if you were listening to something. Inside your head.”

“Yes.”

“Can we listen too?” she said with a grin. The other man didn’t laugh. He looked straight at him, as if he could see them sitting there, playing inside his head. “What’s it sound like?” she asked, getting up and walking around to him and leaning against his ear. He could feel her weight and the strong smell of alcohol on her breath. They’d been drinking before he arrived. He hadn’t touched a drop. Not then and not now. “I can’t hear anything,” she said, leaning more heavily against him; then she kissed him. He could feel her inside his mouth. He didn’t move. “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “Aren’t you feeling excited?” She turned to the other man. “He doesn’t seem to be very excited. I thought he was a swinger.”

The other man said nothing. He was still scrutinizing him. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.