Time to Write
The door shut with an obtrusive squeak and a quiet click, and he started up the stairs. The engine of her car could be heard through the double-pane windows, frantically trying to warm itself, and over the low whir of the heating system that he’d turned on for her short stay. The warmth was something that reminded him of women. They did not like to be cold. So he provided heat. The sounds of her car backing into the street, still wet from the previous night’s rain, were mildly acknowledged in the back of his mind.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he managed to catch a glimpse of her taillights out the window to his left, the bed where his parents slept laying untouched for the weekend. He watched as she disappeared down the hill and turned right into his room, eyes scanning for nothing in particular. The sight of his very recently rumpled bed sheets brought a smile to his face, briefly, before he grabs his laptop and heads back down to the kitchen.
Setting up on the counter near the coffee-maker and the window, he opened the lid to reveal a mess of a keyboard. Dried shreds of blend no. 27, orange cheesy dust from a multitude of products purchased exclusively at convenience stores, still sticky bits of icky from the most recent toke. He bends over slightly and gingerly blows off the debris, making sure to catch what he can before it is lost to the floor.
A mug of fresh coffee pauses just before his lips, steam wafting up into his nostrils. He can always smell the whiskey more than he can taste it in coffee, and he takes a moment to appreciate the warmth where he’s found it. The commencing sip marks the first time caffeine and alcohol have hit his system in the current diurnal cycle. The chills down his spine attest to this, as rancid thoughts seep from his mind through his now flying fingers onto the page. It is time to write.