floating in a tin can

February 10th, 1969

When Lee wakes up, she does not immediately recognise her surroundings. This doesn't alarm her very much. This happens all the time, she gets blackout drunk, passes out, and wakes up somewhere she doesn't remember. She's not drunk, though, she's not even hungover, which is different. What else is different - when she forces her eyes open, she sees the room is only half-furnished. Not like a hotel room, but not like somewhere anyone lives, either. It's confusing and makes her sit up and peer around. No. She stayed over at Michael's last night. That's what this room is, his bedroom.

That's right. It had been too late for the trains and she didn't want to call a cab. She hadn't worried about propriety, because who would know or care?

That said, the rejection by Michael's father still stings. It's strange, Lee has never had to think about her reputation before, she's had more immediate concerns like finding money, food, and a place to sleep, and fleeing the terrible madness that rears its head occasionally in order to ruin her life. Back home she had a different set of circumstances and among her circle with Rich's friends or at the Factory, nobody cares what she does with her time or her body and in fact they encourage depravity. Be a slut, do whatever you want, Rich says all the time. But now, elsewhere, with other people - they see her as a woman and suddenly her reputation is a problem. Suddenly it's relevant, people care who don't even know her, and it matters more than anything else - more than her character, her political opinions, whether she's kind to children or animals. Who she's screwing and who her friends are screwing is the most important thing now. Suddenly she's the one parents don't want around their sons.

Strange.

It's daylight outside, but a pale grey light. Must still be overcast. It makes it hard to guess the time, but Lee figures it's late morning. Monday. The bed is empty, she just figures Michael already went to work and she slept through it, which is typical for her, she could sleep through a cyclone. She hears the door open, and footsteps, but still half-asleep, doesn't connect those noises to any thoughts. Instead she rolls over and pulls the sheets over her head, moaning her flat refusal to acknowledge the morning. She doesn't want to get up. She's sure out of bed it's going to be ice cold again, and if her feet touch the floor before it's heated she will actually literally die.