Matt was jealous. Ridiculous to resent a sheet. The way it moulded her sleeping form and slithered with each rise and fall of her breasts. He wanted to rip the silk away and wrap himself around her. Slide skin to skin.
And when she woke, would she be disappointed? He'd better bring her breakfast.
He barely recognised his studio flat. Plain green walls now showed a woodland scene. Dryads cavorted in sunlit groves. A Naiad peeped from a forest pool and stifled a giggle with webbed fingers.
Matt shuffled into the kitchen.
It didn't help his hangover that the tiled floor stretched to infinity in every direction. That the cooker danced a jig, its door opening and closing to the beat by a plucked chicken balanced in a roasting tin. Matt had never cooked so much as a sausage.
Thunder clouds massed over the washing machine and on the draining board the Goddess Kali danced upon a silver teaspoon. She looked remarkably like his mother. Apart from the arms. She waved at him and kicked an endless shower of sugar onto the counter as she danced.
Breakfast was going to be an uphill struggle.
The kettle cooperated but the cold tap insisted on singing Nessun Dorma before gushing water. Willing bread, on the other hand, cartwheeled down the counter and back flipped into the toaster. Minutes later golden toast sighed as he soothed it with butter and marmalade.
By now Kali was surrounded by a widening lake of crystals that sparkled and pulsated like star clusters on the slate counter. He hoped that the woman, what's her name, didn't take sugar.
Kali brandished tiny swords. She flipped teabags into the air and filleted each one with a swipe. She disappeared into a swirling cloud of tea leaves whilst each bag unfurled and flew away. When the air cleared Kali was gone. The flat grew quiet.
Perhaps she'd prefer coffee? The percolator bubbled and popped. He prepared egg yolk, milk and brandy. The aroma of Caffè Imperiale wrapped itself around him and squeezed his balls.