E. M. Esq.

I feel like I’m on the verge of something. I don’t know what.

The facts, as they stand: a taste of stale apples for the third morning in a row; trousers full of change from money I don’t remember spending; a growing habit of waking in an armchair. Also, a bitter kind of sense that dirty jokes at 4am is becoming a main event.

Today’s chair is somewhat towards the leather end of the spectrum, and it takes a few attempts to peel myself up. The balance isn’t the greatest and the sleeping bodies on the floor make for tricky navigation. A homeless man I dragged along is curled up to a radiator, arms twitching, no doubt still off his arse on rubbing alcohol. I leave him to it.

The sunlight is a little too much and necessitates some casual leaning in the doorway, arms folded and a certain level of cold sweat… but no one seems to notice, or they give no indication. The vision clears far enough to surmise that we’re somewhere over Ranelagh direction and I edge towards what could be a taxi.

The driver watches me crawl in, yellow teeth cracking out of a black smile.

“Where to?”

…

It’s a decent question.