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prepare herself for the day ahead.

I DID NOT like my hotel room. The bed was too small, the sheets were frayed and the glass window was stained with the dust and the perpetual grey residue of the Athenian air. Not that it really mattered much; the view outside the room was ugly as well. It looked down on a concrete apartment block, a billboard for the Agricultural Bank of Greece, and if I strained my eyes hard enough I could catch a glimpse of the neon from Syntagma Square. The airconditioning hummed at a consistent and annoying low pitch; water dripped dripped dripped in the bathroom. I opened my eyes and nothing had changed. The dull cheap white paint on the wall, the dripping water, the humming machinery.
    Beside me, the boy was still asleep. His snores were light and a thin strip of dewy saliva coated his lips. His shoulders and chest were tanned piss-yellow from the Mediterranean sun. Fine blond hairs spread across his belly. He hardly stirred when I got up. I switched on the bathroom light and looked in the mirror. My skin was stretched tight across my face. On the floor, next to the full ashtray, there was still a shot of whisky left. I put the bottle to my mouth and drank.
    â€”I have some too? He spoke to me in his terrible English, and I replied in my inadequate Greek that the bottle was now empty. His eyes were bleary and red. He rose and walked into the bathroom unembarrassed by his nudity. He shut the door and I quickly began to put my clothes back on. I put on my watch and saw that it was close to two o’clock in the morning. I was far from sleep. I waited impatiently for the youth to finish.
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    I had found him in the park across from the old Olympic Stadium. The day was giving itself over to evening and under the shade of a large English oak a group of young men were playing cards. They were all wearing jeans and most were naked to the waist. Only a couple of them looked Greek. The others could have been Slav. Could have been Russian. Could have been Polish. He had been wearing a singlet, a faded blue sweatshirt with the Adidas stripes. I found myself staring at him, the surprising dark thatch of hair under his arms, his keen concentration on the gambling. One of the other youths noticed me staring, and then so did a pretty transvestite with her arm around one of the younger boys; she winked at me. Embarrassed to be caught out, a little frightened by their youth and poverty, I kept walking.
    I heard footsteps behind me.
    â€”Have you cigarette?
    I stopped and gave him one.
    I didn’t want to ask his age. His brow was lined and weary, his posturing was macho and confident, but his eyes and mouth betrayed his youth. As the sun faded and the warm Athenian breeze encircled us, I found myself drawn by the faintly unpleasant but intoxicating odour of sweat on his burnt gold skin. We negotiated prices in the twilight and smoked my cigarettes as we walked back to my hotel.
    He had said hardly a word as we were walking, but once inside the room he was cheerful and chatty. He was Russian, he told me, and we spoke a combination of Greek and English in order to understand each other. His cheerfulness increased when I mimed to him that we would not need any condoms as I had no intention of fucking or being fucked. We drank from my bottle, he smoked more of my cigarettes, and he allowed me to shoot my come across his shoulders, his cheeks, his chest. He kept his eyes firmly closed and when I had finished he rubbed his face vigorously with the sheet.
    â€”Your skin very white for a Greek, he told me.
    â€”My family is Greek. But I told you, I am from Australia.
    He traced a finger along my shoulder; he smirked as I playfully tugged at his balls.
    â€”But Australia too is plenty sun, no? He moved away from me.
    â€”It is winter there now.
    He sniffed, eyed me suspiciously, then got up and went into the bathroom. I heard him pissing and I quickly hid my wallet under the mattress.
    â€”Would you like to