Chris Grundemann
Jan 27, 2019 · 2 min read

He woke slowly to a room full of sun. “What time is it” he asked himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and tried to piece together just where exactly he was. Finding himself naked and the bed empty, he called out a quiet “hello?” Only the hum of the air conditioner greeted his plea.

The apartment was white and small. One room, no kitchen.

Flashes of the night before. It started after lunch. Strolling through Wat Pho with Mike and Angela. Then drinks. That pool. The roof of the Okura! Wait, had that been lunch? Pad Thai and something frozen. Mojitos? After dark a stop for bandaids to cushion Angela’s heels. That’s when the Red Bull came into play. Brown medicinal bottle, Thai characters, no carbonation.

Train rides. A long walk. The trailer in the ally. Beers on the curb waiting for a table. That’s when she had appeared. His friend’s friend Dee. It all came rushing back now. Her long sleek figure draped in flowing black. Her newly died half blond half black hair. The immediate and almost overwhelming chemistry.

Shellfish grilled over coals on the tiny table. A jazz club. A hookah bar? More dancing. They’d all jumped a fence at some point. Helping each other over with beers they had taken from an unattended shop, Baht left on the counter. Conversation and music. He’d introduced them to Chromeo. Then sex. Oh my god that sex. Hot, sweaty, passionate. He was already hard from the memory of it when she opened the door.

“Oh, look who’s up” she smiled, winked. “Literally” he replied, pulling the blankets over himself. “I brought food.” “You’re amazing.” Their eyes locked and she knew he meant it.

They sat on the bed and ate. And talked. About bicycle day and programming and piano recitals high on LSD. Eventually he was back inside her. Lips and hands and legs. Intertwined bodies becoming one again.

After, laying beside her, they exchanged life stories. The currently relevant bits at least. His father. Her transition. “Play for me.” “Okay!” She rolled naked from the bed and sat at the piano stuffed next to it.

He memorized every curve of her sun kissed body. Every move of her trained muscles. As she played the most perfect concerto. His gaze was tracing the curve of her back when the bullet entered her skull. He was covered in blood and brain before he recognized the sound of the balcony doors shattering. Had he even realized there was a balcony?


Bits, pieces, fragments, shards, and other experiments in explaining a lot with a little…

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade