"Please don't let it rain. Don't stumble on my pride." The lyrics were the only thing left that I could remember from the evening. Mose motioned to the driver, either money or something. I didn't care nor wait.
My eyes were heavy and blurry. I was still tired, and yet knowing I needed to be awake, my body could have cared less. I'd been awake for 16 hours, running on semi-empty. And no, I didn't just wake up. Yawning felt like it could have have sucked me into a deep sleep every time my jaw even made the motion to yawn.
In my office the desk seemed to warp before my eyes as if it were a distant mirage. It's grotesque dance only stimulated a brief smirk on my face. I don't think I could have done any other facial expressions without a biblical flood of negative emotions pouring down on my soul.
A warm burning sensation, neither pleasant or unpleasant crept up from my wrists and thighs up to my torso. I heard Mose behind me, but it didn't matter to me none. I think he was worse off. I took off my tie and threw it at the top of the file cabinet. It fell in the garbage bin.
"Rick I-uh, I'ma gonna go, unless you need anything." His speech slurred worse than a retard's.
"Yeah, I think that'd be a good idea. I think you've had enough for tonight."
He nodded as if he were actually retarded, then retreated from the office quietly closing the door locking it. I crept over to the desk, lording over some leftover alcohol that while covered, still lingered from the previous night. I'm sure it's still good. I told myself. Isn't alcohol an antiseptic?
"Yeah, I think that'd be a good idea. I think you've had enough for tonight."
He nodded as if he were actually retarded, then retreated from the office quietly closing the door locking it. I crept over to the desk, lording over some leftover alcohol that while covered, still lingered from the previous night. I'm sure it's still good. I told myself. Isn't alcohol an antiseptic?
Looking outside into the night I saw my reflection. You're still good. Damaged goods, refurbished, limited edition, working prototype, drinkin', hard-boiled... No that last part isn't totally true. As far as I'm concerned there are only three or four hard-boiled guys left alive. And I ain't one of them. Slouching at the desk chair I smiled at my reflection. Yeah maybe you're those things. Who knows?
"Still good." Who knows? Who the fuck cares outside of Arturo or Mose? No one else matters. You know you're like beer. I griped at myself. You're not like wine, you don't age. You ferment. Sitting on my chair I stared briefly outside then at the ceiling.
"Yes I do." I whispered to myself, reaching over to flick on the turntable.
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