Sunday produced a cheap bottle of brown whisky. She pretended to read the plain label, betraying any essence of wealth it may have boasted. It would provide us with a different wealth however, a wealth of hazy laughs, sloppy dancing, slurred words and reckless promises. She took a swig and passed the bottle to me, it was our last night together so I didn't consider the pungency of what I was about to consume.

"Well Lee-Lee lets make our last night on this Earth together not only fun, but sleazy and messy and dirty and I hope feel like shit at the end of it so I know I had a great time because we're not gonna remember fucking any of it."

I laughed along with her, our laughs mixing like the acrid, exhaled smoke from our joints in the dark night sky.

All above our heads floated potential we didn't give a fuck about to follow and our futures that would be bollocks thanks to our 'fuck it' attitudes of today. All that shit floated. Floated along with planets and stars and other worlds and the bigger dreams of strangers.

I glanced across at Sunday, watched the light bounce of her breasts and the definition of her cleavage as she skipped about in the moons illumination. I thought about the time when we were 8 that she told everyone her name was 'Sundae' because she loved ice cream, sprinkles, cherries, cream and strawberry sauce more than she loved anything. She didn't have those tits then. I found it odd to think of her as simply that, some tits and a vagina, just like I saw the girls I slept with because Sunday was so much more she was deep and had feelings and opinions and wanderlust. But then again she had pretty great tits too. Not that I'd ever really considered fucking her.

I threw my joint to the grass and trod in it leaving a patch of spaghetti grass and mud bolognese. I blew the last of the smoke out of my body and took a glug of the whisky. The alien sexual thoughts of Sunday 'Sundae' Smith clearing from my brain like the last of the grey smoke dissipated from the cold air.

We huddle in my sleeping bag. Your bare ass is warm against my underwear covered crotch. Your bony, bare shoulders rattle in the wind, their brittleness a reminder of your similar fingers and how they used to plunge down your throat. Sundae in the toilet bowl. Sundae behind the bike racks. Sundae patches stain the grass at the bottom of your garden beside 'Stanley' the big tree. Sundae everywhere but inside you. Your hair tickles my nose, the hair I used to hold out of your face. You move closer to me, moving your shoulders from the wind. My semi becomes a boner.

You breathe gently on my arm that you're using as a pillow. Your hand gently clutches my other. I curl around you so I can watch the embers of the fire die. You held my hand tighter the day her coffin drove by. Black radiated from everything. The blackened sky threatening rain. Black on all of the people who loved her. Black on your fingernails, digging in lightly to my palm. The wood sparks, creating more sunny, orange light. The noise makes you slightly turn your head to my bare chest. The sparks die out like everything else.

You notice me jabbing into your leg and try to move however are halted by the sleeping bag. You drowsily wake and we move together so your head is on my chest. I close my eyes knowing now you can be warm underneath more blankets. Your vacant eyes as you push me whilst still half asleep makes me remember the time you forced me to volunteer with you at an old peoples home. I remember a time you climbed in my window at 4am and got into bed with me. You were sobbing and I put my arms around you while you told me how there was so much suffering in the world and there was nothing anyone could do. I wonder if you still think the same thoughts you did a year ago.

Your eyes return to perfect closed books. Books are best kept closed for no heartache is found and no adventure need end. You forgot that however and involved yourself in the business of Hamlet and Blackbeard and explorers of the Amazon. Always saddened at the pages demise. I remember when we both wept as we closed Harry Potter for the final time. The only books you ever convinced me to read. I think about how you'll always have a home with me, for you to leave is unthinkable however fast approaching like the Hogwarts Express.

A broken, ashy log falls into powder and nothingness. I remember when the twin towers fell. You started looking into conspiracy theories. If anyone knew who killed JFK it was you. Since, we've spiralled into self destruction. Living like poor, teenage rock stars. I glance at the tattoo on your shoulder and smile at the flowered swirls, and then at the sludge of your black eye-liner making its way into the surround of your eyes. A devil might have been more appropriate.

I wonder if you know all the things that happened to me while I was growing up in this shitty suburb. Remember how I had a panic attack in my music exam and failed the only thing that was important to me. Do you remember the time you made me watch 'The Notebook' and I almost cried and you laughed at how shit it was. Do you remember my first girlfriend, Claire and how you told me she was a lesbian but I didn't believe you. She dated you six months after. Although both relationships were brief affairs. Do you remember that? I hope so.

"I… love… you." You mumble gently in your sleep. I say the same back. Natural. It's how we've always been. I worry we made a mistake last night and ruined everything we had. Your messy panda eyes flutter open. The sun is up. I hadn't noticed. You lean your chin on my chest. It hurts a little but I don't complain. You smile knowingly and shift your hands so your chin is on them instead.

"I'm naked." Sunday stated. She sounded OK with it. Sunday yawned. I knew what was coming next.
"What's for breakfast?" There it was. She always eats when she's hungover. I shake her off and sit up. Pulling sticks onto the fire, I grab my lighter and throw in some burning rubbish, leaves, twigs, papers. We're isolated here. I look in my bag. Thank fuck I had the sense to steal money. I throw bacon and sausages into a stove and pull on a shirt and some joggers.

Sunday sits up, rubs her eyes and scrapes her hair back in a ponytail. Her breasts creamy and white, interrupted by red marks where my mouth was last night.

She looks into her bag that rested beside her and threw over my toothbrush. She remembered I hate having morning breath. Tomorrow she'll be gone. I decide last night wasn't a mistake.