You stumble up to the shoulder of the staircase. The liquor tickles the space in between the back of your nose and the stem of your brain. You have no idea how much space that is — you’re not an anatomist. It could be a  good few inches, or a couple of millimeters.

You’re wearing her scarf. It suits you. “That’s a girl’s scarf. You can’t wear that.” she had said. You wonder what the difference is between the neck of you, for all intents and purposes a man, and of her, a woman. Both get cold. Both are awkward columns of flesh between the trendier regions of the body. Head boy or girl at the top, the brutish jock of the torso below, with its Gryffindor, showoff organs, the heart and lungs. Just dweeby, useless, intermediary, neck.

You can’t remember your room number. You choose to remember hers, instead.