Closed. Closed. Closed. Closed. Every bakery in Smith Street is closed. But no, the very last one, the one just before all hope lost, is open. There is not much left but what do I expect when I head down at 15.30. It is a glorious afternoon.
I’ve got to do something? I have to admit the nightmares are getting worse. I keep dreaming about loosing everything. But, I’ve still got 50K in the bank, so why am I worried? That should last a while. Sure, I’m frittering away my life’s savings, but my mum turns ninety-one next birthday, and she has Alzheimer’s, she can’t go on for that much longer, now can she?
I don’t want to work.
I met Nicholas down the street. He walked out of the crowd like an Italian model. “Come home for a coffee.” I was just beginning to check him out, when I realised who it was. He is still his amazingly beautiful self. That Nicholas, he lay back on the couch and laughed, in his dark blue t-shirt and dark blue jeans and looked a bit like a photo shoot, momentarily.
We drank coffee, I smoked bongs, two in a row. Tim went out for wine. He’s good. I explained what work did to me and he said, they can’t do that. They just can’t.
I walked back up George Street in the bright, warm sunshine. What am I going to do then? What? I’ve got to do something? My head is thick, my eyelids heavy. I drag my feet, but in an altogether pleasant way.
Sam comes over after work.
We go to the supermarket to buy ingredients for Risotto, using the left over roast chicken from last night. I've also got home made chicken stock in the freezer. Lovely.
We head to bed early and watch TV. But, pretty soon, comes Sam's nightly call. “Switch it off.” He now grabs the remote control and has the TV turned off before I even realise.
Darkness.
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