Sam's Home

5.30am. Sam is home.

He caught the SkyBus to Southerncross Station, and a tram. I drove to pick him up at the tram stop.

"Did you have a good time?"

"I'm exhausted."

He fell straight to sleep on the couch.

He didn't even drink the coffee I made him, he dismissed it with a wave of his hand, "You have it."

"It's been destroyed by all that milk, I say.

I drink the coffee.

It's just started turning light outside, I notice, as I sip the sweet, milky coffee.

Sam gets up, walks around the coffee table like a zombie, picks up the coffee, mumbles something incomprehensible, as he looks down into it, something about me having drunk it already, puts the coffee back down on the coffee table, then staggers out of the room mumbling something about going to bed.

7am. Smoke some more. Oh, I might as well smoke it all now, now Mr No Fun Bags is home.

Its Sunday, we’ll be cleaning in a couple of hours. “Party over,” Sam will say.