We drink coffee in white, square mugs on the fifth ***** step. I am sick and the coffee pinballs in my stomach. You do not care about hydration. You are covered in so much paint you look like Matisse in a fender-******. You look sore all the way down to your fingers.
The bed in the opposite room won't be yours, but could be.
I lope around nauseous on the mornings I don't work. I light candles that jump with a stench of French Vanilla. Dogs bark unholy early. I tire of the anxious sleep of the newly living-there, the newly living. The loud neighbour, the considerate neighbour, the ******* dogs.
I open the bedside drawer. No Gideon hotel bibles. Condoms, picture frames, instructions for a washing machine. No Bibles.
Sometimes, I find it in my shoes - this envy - or in my pockets. And sometimes I drag it behind me, like wedding cans on a bachelor's car, filaments of grief and filthy broken dinnerware, threaded cotton of towels too often used without washing and wine bottle bones.
And somebody once told me not to paint a room in it, but this jealousy is sage, not lime, and I could **** well sleep in here, and sometimes do.