2.34 am

She inhales the first drag of her cigarette as though it's her last, savouring its bitterness and its gravel.

The night is warm and damp.

It has started to drizzle, but she doesn't notice.

She leans one hip languidly against the concrete balcony as the wind blows a strand of dark hair across her face. She doesn't notice that either.

She is naked, save the cigarette, and she doesn't care who sees her.

In truth, she rarely does.

Below her lies the city. Garish pinks and electric blues adorn its midnight bodice, its lines blurred and offensive, like a drag queen in a seedy after-hours bar.

She is lost in memory. In the spasms and convoluted imagery the evening has left behind. Pulsing music, moistening lips, reaching hands.

Teeth, skin, cocktails, pills.

Black blue, red, white.

The man in her bed is a stranger to her. They are both strangers in this place.

From the ledge she can just make out the line of his bare shoulder and she sighs.

She hates this part.

The gentle urging toward the exit, the inevitable protestations. Empty promises of phone calls and evening meals, just to placate him until she is once again alone with her thoughts.

A beckoning wine glass.

But, mercifully, he doesn't. Leaving no hastily scrawled number on the hotel courtesy pad, he doesn't ask after her favourite restaurant - in London or anywhere else. He doesn't offer to bring her back here someday. He doesn't speak at all.

He just slips from bed and dresses slowly, purposefully, as she watches from the balcony.

Still naked. Still smoking.

There are no words.

With a small smile he steals the last drag of her cigarette and a long, slow kiss. He tastes of bourbon, sex and ashes.

"You're incredible", he says, and closes the door behind him.

And she allows herself to love him until the sound of his footsteps have faded completely.

Then she turns back to the midnight pinks and neon blues of Shanghai.

Its gentle rain is a baptism.

Light another cigarette and forget.