A Bluebottle is ricochetting between the panes in the window, seduced by escape. And the evening sun is hung by dust as it breaks through the slats. And the courtyard is a merge of suits.
This must be the four hundredth time I've walked this building, and as I'm carrying a fluted tray, working the crowd, Cassis is spilt onto my otherwise pristine shirt. And apologies follow as a rolled up fifty is pushed into my free hand.
And it's three a.m when I return, and the streets are still empty. And I'm pushing a key into a lock. And in the bath/dressing room I change into a clean shirt, Grey Stripped, unbranded, and take off my Chinos. And pretend the shirts yours. And on the Robi coffee table, piles of pressed clothing, accessories and an empty Cafetiere. And I'm caught somewhere between day and night, morning light breaking the street light polluted cloud.
And in a travel bag I throw a few items, a laptop, a phone, Hugo Boss dress shirts, polos, the swim shorts from my race sponsor, two 75cl bottles of Goose. Tonight I'm leaving on a train. Heading, South. Walking through the kitchen I cogitate the idea that we co-inhabit and you've waited for me to return, and it's nights like these that you'd say don't go but you'd be happy that I'm happy. And I'd tell you I'd be back soon, and you'd smile and press my lips with yours.