Mornings

    Golden prison bars cage my bed in their heat; I’m sweating under the sheet now. Venetian in their namesake, the blinds are the crux of my being. I roll myself off the bed and onto the floor which is thankfully still bathed in shadow. My breathing is quick and shallow from preforming that singular feat, an obvious sign of the cigarettes last night, though I needed no telling as my swollen tongue could taste. I wipe the sweat from my brow as the carpet rubs my nude back, my eyes stay shut as I wonder what happened last night. I creep my hand along the carpet, a hermit crab combing the beach for solace, hearing the circling squawks overhead, feeling the sun beat down on it. My hand finds solace. I twist the cap off and take a sip.

      It’s making late payments on bills, payments just touching the minimum, drowning in debt as I still place the bottle to my lips for a drink. The jingling quarters in my pocket are the rhythm section behind the automated ding accompanying the liquor store door. The rhythm section marches with me leaving the other pieces behind, this parade route swings by the gin shelves because it’s early in the month and the bills don’t have to be paid yet. The lady at the first cash served me three days ago; I head to the second line. On the way out I hold the door for an entering customer around my age; I can hear his pocket jingling. I don’t make eye contact.

    Once home I place the new bottle beside the empty one on my desk (kitchen table) and open my word processor (booklet of paper). This, not drinking cheap alcohol or smoking bummed cigarettes, is the true struggle. I don’t drink because life is unfair; I drink because my main character keeps being a fucking dick when he’s supposed to be the “Hero”. How can I not pull a cigarette from the battered pack I stole last night when my female lead sleeps with her best friend’s man behind her husband’s back? What about when my twenty year old protagonist drinks his way out of university? That must deserve a drink. I’ll fight with them, yell at them, tell them about the damage they’re doing, show them their reflections, add soliloquys, but it never does any good. I’ll keep trying to write them in the right way while the sun falls and the bottle empties. I’ll fight until the phone rings, and my friend invites me to the pub. He’ll tell me not to fuck up like I did last night, and I’ll laugh and apologize as I gather my coat promising to be there in 15 minutes. On the way out the door I’ll stop by the kitchen table and look over the unfinished stories and the stubborn characters, they’ll look back at me and without an ounce of guilt ask:

“Can I bum a smoke?”