6.00 AM
I can still taste her lipstick, smudged over my thumb sweet, acid, rancid taste floating inside the cab. It’s early by the looks of things, streets not busy, people shuffling and that tinge of twilight. On the way to the office got to stop by the apartment get redressed, this shirt covered in stains glittering with a battered shade of scarlet and brown. Sleeve torn, button MIA. The cab jerks to the corner, I move for the door gesturing a stuttered form of thank you, gracefully crossing the polyculturlistic gap of endearment. On to the curb, reaching back for the briefcase and with a quick tug I am outside and into the cold. I am waiting for the bourbon, lack of sleep, and those insolent lines of coke to fade. Where is the hollowness? I keep waiting … the elevator door opens and I begin to soar to the 14th floor in one of those lifts with the regional voices. I think she is Scottish, though maybe I am detecting a northern twang. It’s sexy with that authoritarian swagger, can’t say I like that, but, a few ideas trickle into my head of a plan to silence her.