Cold Peace

Sunlight penetrated the room and Kiwi groaned. His head was throbbing, his mouth dry, and he needed to pee. But when he rolled over to get out of bed, he bumped into something. There was someone else in his bed. Oh, God! Where did she come from? The pub, of course; drinking with Chips and Ron. They’d chatted up those girls — well, not really girls anymore, Kiwi reflected as he eased out from under the covers without waking up his bedmate.

By the cold light of dawn with most of her make-up on the pillowcase, she looked older than he was. Her heavy breasts sagged shapelessly to either side, but her belly swelled up in two thick rolls. She lay on her back, her mouth hanging open, and she snored softly. She looked forty if she was a day, but who knew? Too many late nights, too many cigarettes, too much alcohol, too many lost friends and too many disappointments had left them all looking older than their age. Did anyone look “their” age anymore?

Kiwi stumbled over the cold floor to the bathroom, embarrassed to realise he was as naked as the woman in his bed. Their clothing was littered on the floor in a messy heap all mixed up together. He vaguely remembered the excitement of it, but the call of nature allowed no lingering.

He slipped into the bathroom and his reflection in the mirror made him groan. He looked an absolute wreck. God, he had to stop drinking like that. He couldn’t handle it anymore — or the consequences. How the hell was he going to get rid of her? And what on earth was her name? Not to mention that his head was killing him!

After relieving himself, he turned on the tap and filled the basin with cold water. He leaned over, dipped his hands in the water and threw it at his face. He had the feeling he’d forgotten something — besides the name of the woman in his bed. What day of the week was it? What was he supposed to be doing?

Jesus Christ! He stood up so abruptly that he almost blacked out and had to clutch the washbasin to stop himself from losing his balance altogether. It was Friday! He was scheduled for his flight test today! At 9:30 am. What time was it?

Jesus! Jesus! He ran out of the bathroom and started frantically searching for his watch. Where had he put it? His hasty search made the stranger in his bed turn over with a little moan, but Kiwi didn’t care. He had to find out what time it was. Finally, he spotted his watch lying atop the chest of drawers. 8:35!

No, no! He couldn’t be late! His future depended on passing the qualifying exam on twin-engine aircraft. If he couldn’t get his certificate for twins, he couldn’t fly the Wellington, and he was no use to Banks, and he’d be tossed out of the company on his ear. Jesus! Jesus! The first objects he could put his hands on were his socks and he pulled one on after the other, then his undershorts and finally a pair of trousers.

The woman on the bed made a sound like she was awake.

“I’ve got to go, honey,” Kiwi called over to her as he snatched up the house keys and stuffed them in his trouser pocket. “Just help yourself to tea or coffee and toast and let yourself out.”

“What? Where—” She tried to sit up but flopped back on the pillow, apparently dizzy. Dishevelled hair framed a face on which smeared mascara gave her two black eyes.

“It was a great night,” Kiwi flung at her as he made a dive for the door. “We’ll have to do it again sometime, but I’ve got to go. I’m late.”

He grabbed his flight jacket as he went out the door and continued buttoning up his shirt as he staggered toward his car parked on the curb out front. Only then did he realise he’d forgotten his car keys. Cursing, he ran back to the door, let himself in calling out as he entered, “It’s just me! I forgot the car keys.” He found them hanging by the door and ducked out again without another word. He fervently hoped she would be gone when he got back. What a mess if she decided to stay! But why should she? She must have a job somewhere.

He frowned, trying to remember. Yeah, she worked somewhere around here but had been a WAAF in the war. Seen one boyfriend after another buy it. Same old tough luck story they all told as an excuse for being so experienced in bed. It bothered him, though, that he couldn’t remember her name. Judy? Rosie? Something with a “y” on the end he thought. Suzy?

He looked again at his watch. It was 8:45. Jesus! It would take him at least half an hour to get to the airport, then he had to park and check in, and…