Maybe I should go then. If I‘m so shallow and corrupt—‘

No, don‘t go,‘ she said, a little too quickly. "It‘s four in the morning.‘

He shuffled up the bed until his face was a few inches from hers. "I don‘t know where you get this idea of me, you barely know me.‘

I know the type.‘

The type?‘

I‘ve seen you, hanging round Modern Languages, braying at each other, throwing black-tie dinner parties—‘

I don‘t even own black-tie. And I certainly don‘t bray—‘

Yachting your way round the Med in the long hols, ra ra ra—‘

So if I‘m so awful—‘ His hand was on her hip now.

—which you are.‘

—then why are you sleeping with me?‘ His hand was on the warm soft flesh of her thigh.

 

Actually I don‘t think I have slept with you, have I?‘

Well that depends.‘ He leant in and kissed her. "Define your terms.‘ His hand was on the base of her spine, his leg slipping between hers.

By the way,‘ she mumbled, her mouth pressed against his.

What?‘ He felt her leg snake around his, pulling him closer.

You need to brush your teeth.‘

I don‘t mind if you don‘t.‘

S‘really horrible,‘ she laughed. "You taste of wine and fags.‘

Well that‘s alright then. So do you.‘

Her head snapped away, breaking off the kiss. "Do I?‘

I don‘t mind. I like wine and fags.‘

Won‘t be a sec.‘ She flung the duvet back, clambering over him.

Where are you going now?‘ He placed his hand on her bare back.

Just the bog,‘ she said, retrieving her spectacles from the pile of books by the bed: large, black NHS frames, standard issue.

The ―bog‖, the ―bog‖ . . . sorry I‘m not familiar . . .‘

She stood, one arm across her chest, careful to keep her back to him. "Don‘t go away,‘ she said, padding out of the room, hooking two fingers into the elastic of her underpants to pull  the  material  down  at  the  top  of  her  thighs.  "And  no  playing  with  yourself  while  I‘m gone.‘

He exhaled through his nose and shuffled up the bed, taking in the shabby rented room, knowing  with  absolute  confidence  that  somewhere  in  amongst  the  art  postcards  and photocopied  posters  for  angry  plays  there  would  be  a  photograph  of  Nelson  Mandela,  like some dreamy ideal boyfriend. 

 

“不过老天如果垂怜，这一天到来之前你我便早已死于某一场核战争了。”她欢快地说道，然而他还是对她蹙着眉头。

 

 

    “也许我该走了。如果我真的这么浅薄，这么堕落……”

 

 

    “不，别走，”她忙不迭说道，“现在是凌晨四点。”

 

 

    他挪动身子凑近她，直到面面相对，相距只有几英寸。“我不知道你怎么会这么想我，你还压根儿不了解我呢。”

 

 

    “我了解你这种类型。”

 

 

    “类型？”

 

 

    “我见过你这样的，转些时髦词语，互相叫嚣，组织些正装晚餐会之类的活动……”

 

 

    “正装？我连条黑领带也没有。而且我肯定不会‘叫嚣’。”

 

 

    “长假期间驾着游艇闲游地中海，哗，哗，哗……”

 

 

    “我要是有这么恶心……”他说着把手放在她的臀部。

 

 

    “你本来就是。”

 

 

    “……那你为什么还和我睡觉？”他的手掌移到了她温软的大腿上。

 

 

    “实际上我不觉得我和你睡过，睡过么？”

 

 

    “那就要看……”他倾下头去吻她，“你如何定义这个词了。”他的手又移到了她脊椎的底部，一条腿也在她的双腿间滑动。

      “哦，对了……”她喃喃着，吻了吻他的唇。

 

 

    “什么？”他感觉到她的一条腿缠住了自己的腿，将他钩得更近了。

 

 

    “你该刷牙了。”

 

 

    “要是你不介意，我也不介意。”

 

 

    “实在太难闻了，”她笑出声，“你一嘴的烟酒味儿。”

 

 

    “好吧，无所谓。你不也一样嘛。”

 

 

    她把脑袋猛地一闪，中断了亲吻，“我也是吗？”

 

 

    “我不介意，我喜欢烟和酒。”

 

 

    “等我一下。”她把羽绒被掀开，翻盖在他身上。

 

 

    “你要去那儿？”他伸手搭在她赤裸的后背上。

 

 

    “就去一下‘厕所’。”她说着从一摞书上取过眼镜—又大又黑的镜框，国民医疗中心发售的标准样式。

 

 

    “厕所，厕所……对不起，还没听习惯……”

 

 

    她站起来，一条胳膊挡在胸前，小心地背对着他。“别走。”她边说边拖拖拉拉地出了房间，两根手指伸进内裤的松紧带，将它退到大腿上。“我不在的时候你可别自慰啊。”

 

 

    他用鼻子喷了口气，在床上挪了挪身子，端详起眼前的简陋小屋。到处都是艺术明信片和愤青戏剧的海报，他确信其中必定有纳尔逊·曼德拉的肖像—如同一位梦中的理想男友。