The dripping tap sets my teeth on edge.
What a ridiculous turn of phrase. What I mean is, I have a headache and the sound of it is making it worse. I grind my teeth in between several long pulls on the cigarette and flip the butt in the direction of the sink as if it might extinguish the fucking noise.
Fire and water.
I have been drinking too much, too often these past few days, and on top of everything else I have a hangover. Again. I study the key forlornly and notice there is something scratched faintly into the plastic fob: 3.1.
It could mean almost anything or nothing.
3.1. If this were a big budget movie, at this juncture something or other would tumble into place and the camera would pan after me as I bolted for the open door. On the other hand, if I was some fancy A-List actor there would be no fucking movie. I would retire to some island somewhere in the middle of the ocean and drink myself to death with a smile on my face. Straight. Moonshine in the sunshine.
As it is, the numbers mean precious little.
I put the key in my trouser pocket and scratch my nose. It is a bad habit, but I have the itch. Nothing on top of nothing; zero upon zero. I look at my watch. It is already half past opening time, and I am late for my morning wake-up-call.
Key or no key, I have places to run to.
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