Michael Norton looked at the tangle of blonde hair next to him and a voice in his head asked: are you sure you know what you’re doing? The woman lay on her side, her eyes closed and lips parted. He ignored the urge to wake her and slipped out of bed, snatching his clothes off the floor on the way to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, feeling the stubble under his fingers as he washed. He never worried about shaving on Saturday anymore. He needed something to take away the throbbing in his temples. Wasn’t there a rule against drinking champagne on top of whiskey? She had made him buy a split of the real stuff, not just sparkling wine, before they drove to his apartment. Only then had she told him her name was Sasha.
He walked into the living room, past the red leather Coach purse she had dropped as they had waltzed around before settling on the couch. He squatted and unsnapped the clasp. Inside was the usual feminine detritus: lipstick, facial tissues, a couple of tampons and a wallet. He removed the wallet and stared at it for a minute. Inside was more about her than he had learned in the two hours spent drinking and the next two hours in bed. He knew she liked being fed cocktail olives mouth to mouth and there was a rubbery scar on the back of her right thigh. Well, it was a start.