I woke up, as daylight finally forced my eyelids apart.
She was coiled against me, the curve of her spine pressing into my chest. My arm was loosely draped around her waist, fingertips spread over her belly. Short, spiked pink hair tickled my nose. I shifted slightly, and the sun highlighted the angle of her cheekbones, reflected off the piercings in her ears. Cautiously, I eyed the stubble that covered the side of her skull, vague memories of running my fingers through it surfacing from another night long past.

We'd fallen into bed at about six in the morning; an unexpected night with unexpected friends and the accompanying alcohol. A set of events that ended up in a late dinner or early breakfast, small talk and music until the sun came up. All very prosaic, though no doubt what we talked was utter bollocks, and the music solely served to annoy the neighbours downstairs.

In that moment, I was content. No matter that, well, we usually described her as "the mental one", and that on yet another night I'd found myself staring down the wrong end of a two on one fight through the bizarre chain of circumstance that seemed to wind its way around her (I'd later find out that if the violence had gone from impending to actual, I'd have had support from a crack addict with a knife in his sleeping bag - but thankfully such events didn't come to pass).

From knives in a sleeping bag, though, we circle back to the tale. Either the light or my own sleepy movement of weight had awoken her. We exchanged the usual morning pleasantries, though her communication seemed slightly strained. A hangover, chemical or not, I assumed. Of course, your common or garden morning pleasantries do not often extend to sitting bolt up right in bed; at least in my experience they do not. Nor do they extend to a quick movement of her hand under the covers, and the production of a rather large and freshly sharpened knife. I knew it was freshly sharpened, for it had recently lived in the knife rack in my kitchen.

I know not how it had come to be in the tights she wore that night, but I can guess. I certainly know how it came to rest on the pillow next to me, as she laid it there and stared at it. I alternately stared at the knife and her, unsure.

Finally, she spoke.

"Well, you can never be too safe," was what she told me. Shakily, I nodded in response, and watched her slender body saunter over to the computer to put on some music. The knife I quickly stowed away, and the cold sweat around my testicles I left well alone.

As soon as was reasonable, I managed to persuade her to leave my house. For my own part, I went straight to the fucking pub, wherein I was informed by a helpful member of staff that I do, after all, look a bit rapey.

I didn't see her again.

I met a different friend in the pub ten minutes later. As I went to give her a hug, her rape alarm went off.
( gone, Mon 25 Oct 2010, 23:36, 4 replies)

If
It walks like a duck, quacks like a duck and looks like a duck chances are....it's a rapist.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Tue 26 Oct 2010, 7:53, closed)

True
Ducks are renowned for their rapey ways.
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Tue 26 Oct 2010, 8:07, closed)

Bloody hell !!!!
I though it was just cats and bonobos that went in for that sort of thing!
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Tue 26 Oct 2010, 8:18, closed)

I'm not a duck.
:( :( :(
( gone, Wed 27 Oct 2010, 19:11, closed)