The birds chirp over my head, lounging on the branches of the magnolia tree I rest below. My head feels as if it floats with the clouds above the chirping birds, above the beautiful blossoming tree I chose amidst intoxication as my resting place. The moment of clarity, and appreciation of nature comes to a halt as I wish to tilt my head upwards, and feel deep in my cranium a splendorous pain, my souvenir of the night before. I rest my head back down on the ground, filled with scattered blossoms that now decorate my hair. I edge my eyes open and adjust them to the light, withstanding the pain that comes with it, and as I lurch myself up with the will of greyhound, my brain sends me spinning. It is only when I sit with my back leaning on thin wired trunk of the tree do I realise that my glasses are resting on my ears, nor my head. A simple sigh whispers from the inner chasm of my lungs, as I now wiggle my way up the tree, requiring solely on the force through my legs and the stability of its rooted base. I gaze around, my vision obscured due to biological reasons as well as external factors, and after 5-10 minutes of gazing I give up on my search and recline into my prior position. I sit there, completely thoughtless, and with the dull thud of my heartbeat exploding through my head I feel the concept of confusion edging towards my conscious. My mind, blank and pained, has barely any recollection of the night, and as to how I ended up in my current position. I am of course naturally inclined to accepting it, but still intrigued as to how I found myself under the likes of a magnolia tree on the 1st of July. I admire the scenery, the tree is rooted towards the far-left corner of what seems to be a park, large oak trees decorate the sides of all the pathways, which have oriental lamps placed appropriately in their wake, the park has a few joggers passing under its net of leaves, and the lack of any other activity suggests that I have awoken with the sun. The observation is enough for me to consider pulling my phone out of my pocket to try to make sense of the situation. But with the will of a greyhound lacking, I decide against it and rest my head in solace against the trunk again and fall into rest.
“Fucking hell he’s heavy.” I awake to two men on either side of me raising my arms with their own as they attempt heave me into the sky. I let out a disgruntled noise and begin to retract from their grasp, fully alert and vision barely functional.
“Leo fucking calm down.” The voice seems somewhat familiar to me and as I focus on his face I recognize the piercing brown eyes that adorn his fair complexion.
“Oscar. What’s going on.” I mumble, wishing an answer whilst yearning for more rest as my body feels as if it’s decaying by the moment.
“We’re getting you in the car you drunkard.” I hear the voice from my left mutter through the struggle of heaving me through the park.
My brain barely re consolidates the journey to the car, the next thing I know the car is winding its way through the streets of eastern Sydney. I doze off in the backseat, my body resisting to be woken, resisting the tempting bumps into consciousness. Before I know it the two friendly shapes are heaving me out of the car, and now into an apartment door. As they bring me towards the stairs I tear my left hand off the other man, and reach out for the railing. I of course misjudge the distance and throw my weight a good three inches too early and fall dramatically. The two men must lunge down to prevent me from knocking my own chin on the bottom steps and then proceed with the grueling task of dragging me up the stairs. One by one we make it up the flights and to what I assume is Oscar’s place, where I guess they will wish for me to sleep, a concept I quite dearly encourage. The hour as to when I stopped drinking is a question I would like to know, as I may be hung over but I am still indeed drunk.
“Get up.” The serenity of blank darkness is what I awake to, except it seems to be the back of my eyelids. The newness of the world is revealed to me as I decide upon opening my eyes, and it takes me more than a couple moments to realize exactly where I am. I awake to the man named Oscar hunched over my body, refraining from shaking me awake but on the verge of doing so. It seems to be his apartment that he allowed me to pass out in. His apartment is adorned with wicker furniture and many absurdist paintings littered on the walls, his living area seems somewhat of a conference zone as it all surrounds the low Japanese dining table in the middle, which lines perfectly with the flat screen mounted on the wall. My resting position has the perfect view of the whole apartment, as the bed couch is located in the far left corner of the place, next to the bedroom entrance doorway and a vase filled with fake bamboo. Oscars furniture says a lot about his lifestyle, almost more than his posture, voice and appearance. His distinctly gay features are only portrayed through his private life and the men he always keeps company. But hell, who cares about that, he’s a great pianist and PR work comes effortlessly naturally to him.