Currey was startled awake when the hair began to move. He opened his eyes and glanced anxiously at the mass of black on the pillow. It rustled and turned and when the moment was right, Currey slipped his arm from beneath the rustling body and sat up in the bed. He rubbed his arm and pins and needles shot through it as the blood began to rush back into the limb. Currey grimaced and continued to rub the arm. He looked at the shape beneath the covers. She was a small woman, not too big around. The view of her was much better from this angle and he began to become aroused. He looked away, trying to stick to the business at hand, which was finding his clothes and getting out before she awoke. He wondered if his car was outside. He hoped so. He had no idea where he was or how far from home and he still had a shitty taste in his mouth and no toothbrush, so the car would be a very nice thing to have close at hand.
He spotted his pants in the corner. His boxers were close by, and his socks, but his shoes and shirt were no where in sight. Feeling was returning to his arm and Currey was relieved that there was no apparent lasting damage. He glanced again at the sleeping form as he slipped from the bed. For a moment, Currey considered slipping back under the covers to see what the body beneath felt like now that he had sensation again. Always with the arousal. Currey shook his head. Focus, he thought. Focus, Damn it! He slapped his penis for being a nuisance. The girl in the bed stirred—probably the sound, Currey figured and smiled to himself. He eased out of the bed without incident and got his boxers on, then his pants. He gathered up his socks and stuffed them in his pocket.
He made his way to the living room, where his shirt lay on the floor by the front door. Didn’t waste too much time, apparently, Currey thought, gathering up the shirt. Luckily, his shoes were draped over by the shirt, so he scooped those up as well and sat on the sofa to put them on. He gazed about the room in a half-sleepy daze and smiled. It was a pretty house, nicely decorated, with big lamps on the end-tables. Big round lamps that were a deep burgundy with tan shades. Currey nodded—very classy, he thought. Currey liked lamps. He had small lamps at his own place. He pulled the blinds back on the window behind the couch and saw his car was parked—albeit at an odd angle—in front of the house. He slipped his shirt on and walked toward the front door. Then, he paused and went back to look at the lamp a bit closer. It really was a very nice lamp. After no more than a moment’s thought, Currey unplugged the burgundy lamp and lifted it from the end-table. It was surprisingly heavy, Currey thought, but then again, it was a very large lamp.
He opened the door quietly and closed it even more quietly behind him as he left, lamp in tow. Ten minutes later, he had found his bearings—he had made his way all the way to Glendale from Scottsdale, which was an impressive feat, considering how much he had apparently had to drink—and bought a coffee at a Circle K on the corner. Then, he was on his way back home for a much needed nap, with the huge burgundy lamp belted in the passenger seat—after all, he would hate to break such a magnificent lamp in a routine stop at a traffic light.