The young man awakens in the bed. At first he looks around wildly, as though at an unfamiliar place. Then he sits up on the bed, clad only in boxer shorts and a tee shirt, and his gaze systematically takes in the details – the silk lampshade, the alabaster flowered wallpaper, the Edwardian writing desk upon which an old silver tea service stands beside an empty bottle of champagne.
He stands up unsteadily in his bare feet, walks to the nearest door, opens it and peers through, seeming to realize only gradually that he is looking into a walk-in closet. He stares down at the row of women’s shoes, and a look of understanding crosses his face.
Silently he shuts the closet door.
He puts on his jeans and socks and pull-over sweater, which had been scattered on the floor off to one side of the bed, and walks out into the hallway, making his way silently as he carries his shoes in one hand.
He begins to descend the stairs, one by one. Halfway down, he peers furtively from the landing into the room below. Two figures sit upon the couch, a man and a woman. They do not appear to see him. He pulls back silently, until he is just out of sight. He stands stock still for a moment, his head bowed as though deep in thought, and then slowly he sits down upon the stairs.
From the back pocket of his jeans he pulls out a bedraggled drawing pad, opening it to a fresh and unmarked sheet. He reaches into his other pocket, rummaging around until his fingers emerge clutching an exceedingly old looking fountain pen.
He stares intently down at the blank paper, holding the pen absently between thumb and forefinger. Then quickly, with practiced strokes, he begins to sketch a picture.