Broken
The stubborn ringing comes in waves, as you stand in front of your desk, looking at the phone. It looks like it's almost telling you to pick up the handset itself. A cigarette box of blues and a silver zippo lie beside it. You open the box, which is almost empty, and pull a fag out of it. You put it between your lips and light it. You stand quietly for a while, inhale, wait for a few seconds, then blow smoke over your head. The sounds of the street traffic mix with the ringing inside your studio apartment as you open your window, cig between your fingers, and bend outside it.
Behind you, the ringing of the phone stops. The answering machine kicks in: "Donald here. What's the matter with you? You know what we agreed on when we started up. Show up at the Beauburg at six o'clock if you want a job. And remember to delete this shit!" Don has been complaining about your increasing unreliable behaviour. Fuck him. You're his best man. He better get accustomed to it. You sip some smoke from your cigarette, then blow it out.
You like cigarettes. The velvet-like smoke is beautiful, you think. You've never liked pipes or cigars. You like lighting a cigarette, smoking one, the whole procedure. The sound of flipping the cover of a lighter pleases you, watching the tip catch fire, watching it burn from beginning to end. All that is left is an empty carcass, which is quickly disposed and forgotten. You suck for a while, blowing pollution over the city every few seconds, then put it out on the ashtray.
Your window makes a creaking noise as you shut it. The hinges are getting rusty. You stare blankly at the walls of your studio apartment for a while, hands crossed. You don't have to meet Don; you don't need the money that bad. But it might be a good idea to keep the contacts alive, since you haven't been on a job for a while. You sit on the border of your bed, holding your head between your knees, hands crossed over your neck.
Behind you, the ringing of the phone stops. The answering machine kicks in: "Donald here. What's the matter with you? You know what we agreed on when we started up. Show up at the Beauburg at six o'clock if you want a job. And remember to delete this shit!" Don has been complaining about your increasing unreliable behaviour. Fuck him. You're his best man. He better get accustomed to it. You sip some smoke from your cigarette, then blow it out.
You like cigarettes. The velvet-like smoke is beautiful, you think. You've never liked pipes or cigars. You like lighting a cigarette, smoking one, the whole procedure. The sound of flipping the cover of a lighter pleases you, watching the tip catch fire, watching it burn from beginning to end. All that is left is an empty carcass, which is quickly disposed and forgotten. You suck for a while, blowing pollution over the city every few seconds, then put it out on the ashtray.
Your window makes a creaking noise as you shut it. The hinges are getting rusty. You stare blankly at the walls of your studio apartment for a while, hands crossed. You don't have to meet Don; you don't need the money that bad. But it might be a good idea to keep the contacts alive, since you haven't been on a job for a while. You sit on the border of your bed, holding your head between your knees, hands crossed over your neck.