A drink in the flat. A taxi. A warehouse party, somewhere in the depths of Hackney Wick, the Olympic Stadium guiding your way. You pay, you drink, you dance. Your eyes meet another pair across the dancefloor, in a nanosecond between strobe flashes. You follow them to the bar, you say something stupid. You buy them a drink. You move to the smoking area, and then back to the dancefloor. You talk. You dance. You touch. You kiss. You book another taxi. You spend the night in bed, and the day in the pub. You make plans to see each other again, but never do. Night is the smell of those long-lost, one-night dalliances that stay with you long after they probably should.
Addictions become perfumes, bottled, without restraint or moderation, a concentration of excess.