The Cracking

An excerpt by Joti Heir

My eyes set upon an ashtray growing its own mountain of cigarette butts. From my horizontal position on the couch I could stick out my tongue and lick one of the butts if I was so inclined. Why I would be inclined to lick said butts is a thought to mull over for another day

An excerpt by Joti Heir

 

My eyes set upon an ashtray growing its own mountain of cigarette butts. From my horizontal position on the couch I could stick out my tongue and lick one of the butts if I was so inclined. Why I would be inclined to lick said butts is a thought to mull over for another day

I turned over on the couch and stuck my nose into the dusty seat cushions to try and avoid the shining sun. The silly, stupid shining sun, as if there was something to shine about. Interesting fact: the scent of dusty seat cushion is infinitely better than that of cigarette butts and a wasted life.

I tossed and turned in the dust for another few hours, but the sun was shooting its rays directly at the back of my head and the heat was seeping through my cranium out of my forehead and making the couch cushion awfully hot. I suppose the sun had made its mind up to destroy my plans to marinate in cool, dark, depressing peace. Damn you sun, damn you I say.

I heard a sound; my stomach churned. He was in the bathroom, surprisingly up early for someone who had spent the better part of the night fashioning a can-crack pipe, smoking crack, losing can crack pipe, searching apartment dumpster for cans to fashion new crack pipe, smoking crack, losing pipe – you get the picture.

I heard the bathroom door open.

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