I lay in a semi-daze, in a white, antiseptic hospital bed. Absently reading a book, cursing my debilitated condition. Although I consider myself lazy, I hate being inactive; that is, I'd rather CHOOSE to be inactive. I was in a vaguely mean mood, and did not feel like talking to anyone beyond two or three sentences.

Absently flicking the pages, I noticed a girl, not a nurse, walking into the ward. Not able to afford a private ward, though it would have suited my mood admirably, I shared with three others. The girl, whose name I later learned to be Lyn, walked slowly and listlessy towards me. She was short; thin, with a slight but not unattractive figure; with short, unshiny, white-blonde hair. She wore a horizontally striped, loose fitting top, and fairly tight cord jeans. I estimated her age to be, at most, eighteen.

She stopped at the side of my bed, and stared vacantly in the general direction of my face. Her action (if such listlessness of movement could ever be so labelled) implied, to me, that we'd met before but, as I found out later, we had not.
"Hello" she said, in a monotone suggesting utter boredom with everything and everyone. The expression (or lack of) on her face utterly matched her voice. Blank, flat, generally uninterested but saved by being not wholly uninteresting.

I can't recall if I said anything in reply, but she continued anyway. Although I heard every word she said, I can recall practically none of it now. Had she not such a ghastly, lifeless aura about her, and had I not felt so vaguely hostile towards all humanity, individual and general, I would have enjoyed the situation much more.
Had she donned even a hint of vivacity, she would have been a very desirable and attractive young woman. This was easy to see, even in my debilitated condition. But just at that moment, even a personal visit from Elle Macpherson would have aroused little more than slight, vague excitement (if such a feeling is possible).

She kept on talking, evidently about whatever came into her petite but evidently empty head. For the first few minutes, I responded to whatever she was saying (paying as little attention as possible) with as much charm and politeness as I could muster (i.e. very little). She was clearly unconcerned about whatever I would say or do to her. She made occasional, obvious moves to sit on the bed next to me, but I was able to repulse her each time.

That she was a tart was beyond question. She would clearly give her attention to anything in trousers or, in my case, pyjamas. A lifeless, almost mindless zombie, and a boy toy. But I didn't feel like playing.
I later discovered that she spent a lot of time wandering around the town in general, and the hospital in particular, accosting anything vaguely male (which also accurately described how I felt at the time !). A toy, listlessly seeking the playful. In the following minutes, I became increasingly impolite to her. My responses to her chatter were fewer and very curt, and I avoided her dull, pretty eyes by affecting to read a book. I just wanted her to go away.

Had I asked her to sit on the bed, lie next to me, or climb under the sheets, she certainly would have, with minimal persuasion, despite it being only early afternoon, with three other patients as well as visitors in the room. With a little further persuasion, I believe she would have stripped, with minimal tease.
Though these possibilities titillate me now, I just couldn't be bothered then. My natural shyness and reticence become acute when my energy is low, and I entertained nothing even remotely resembling lustful thoughts for her.

I was as lustless as she was listless.
She took the hint (after fifteen minutes of my most concentrated coldness and affected bookreading) and said her goodbyes. "I guess I'd better let you get back to your book" she droned, then shuffled off without another word.
Did I regret my actions ? Not one bit, then or now. But had it been another place, another time ...

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