All that filled it now were leaves, brittle and gold in the bright morning sun. When I opened my eyes I saw the hollow shell of the pool, its walls stained with algae. I realised that I wasn't alone in its corner, as huddled against my torn tuxedo was a pale girl with dark hair, asleep. I had no idea where I was, or how I had arrived there. The only feeling I had was one of slight post-coital nausea, the instinctive guilt a lapsed Catholic feels when waking up next to a stranger. My opening eyes passed over statues covered with vines, which had seemingly never been disturbed. I recognised nothing in the garden. When the girl in my arms stirred as if to awake, something told me she would offer more questions than answers. What follows are the thoughts that scrolled across my mind as I recalled the evening that had just passed. The morning sun makes me remember lights. The feeling of it against my eyes reminds me of torches illuminating the lawn. Evening gowns flitted past, through shadows cast by statues.
