Louis took a cold shower after sleeping in all afternoon, thinking about those sweaty summer bedsheets from last year. Her skin was always soft and he used to run his thumb downward along her hip-bone, setting vibrations along fault-lines and stifling any sound with a kiss.
He turned on the radio and brushed his teeth, removing the taste of sleeping pills and last night's cigar. A mono-brow was forming beautifully and he had finally grown a beard. Now it's beer for dinner, wine for dessert, and John Coltrane rasping loneliness in stereo.
Louis admired his backside with the retractable mirror, reminding himself that old lovers could never forget that ***. He reminded himself of his poetry, his dog; his back-catalogue trivia of white-boy lyrics was sure to make him a desired object, far away from her loving arms.
He turned on the ceiling fan and dried out to the jingles and adverts that interceded the music he'd never cared to listen to before. The sad guitar and Indonesian flute spun webs of memories in hypnotic circles, keeping pace with the motor above.
The picture ran clear in the half-lit room. Louis burned all his notebooks, for all the good it would do.