Thursday, January 31

Heart-shaped box*

He sat on the floor, with his back to the wall. The drawing room had no furniture apart from a television resting on a bookcase, because he did not require any.

In the breathless stillness, the smoke spire from the slow-burning cigarette resting on the pen stand to his left, sliced upward in a straight line. The glass on his right held two fingers of Glenfiddich.

Drag and sip. Drag and sip. In rhythm.

His brain told him cigarettes were bad for his lungs. His brain told him booze was bad for his liver. His heart stayed silent.

Slowly & steadily, the combination of the scotch and the cigarette was making him weak-kneed.

It was as good a substitute for being in love as any.

Song for the moment: Oh, me - Nirvana

*4 years in Bombay and counting 

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