Ugh… My head is splitting, just like they write in books. Damn…

 

A steel band is crushing my temples, and some invisible hand keeps tightening the screws. Any second now my skull will crack and…

 

Blood pounds through my veins, everything swims before my eyes, and even the light seems to add pressure inside my head.

 

My body refuses to obey a single command. What command? A request. A plea from my brain to make even the slightest movement.

 

My mouth tastes awful. Even breathing the air around me triggers nausea, but…

 

There’s nothing left…

 

It all came out last night in the filthy restroom of a gloomy bar.

 

Close my eyes…

 

Exhale…

 

Sink back into oblivion for a little while longer…

 

Ringing in my ears. Flashes before my eyes…

 

That voice…

 

— I know the way.

But you won’t like it.

 

Knows the way, huh…

 

Hell, I don’t even know myself… but he does.

 

— I’m here.

But not instead of you.

 

You’re right about that.

 

No one’s going to pick me up.

 

I stand.

 

Slowly…

 

Carefully…

 

One hand on the wall…

 

Light.

 

My disobedient hands somehow manage to squeeze toothpaste onto a brush…

 

Oh.

 

That’s the first sensation of freshness.

 

And what a face…

 

Little red pig eyes. Puffy crimson skin. Sagging lips. Harsh stubble. Toothpaste running down my chin…

 

Yeah…

 

There it is.

 

The face of a new generation.

 

Careful…

 

The razor scrapes away the coarse stubble, uncertainly but cleanly.

 

Smooth.

 

A shower!

 

Warm water wraps around my head and shoulders, runs down my back, dissolving the steel band for a little while.

 

Good…

 

Oh, that’s good…

 

I could stand here forever.

 

Let the water fill me.

 

Feel my skin soak it up like a sponge.

 

Foamy lather washes away the sticky, stinking remains of yesterday.

 

— I’ll guide you.

But the choice is yours.

 

An angel…

 

Damn…

 

No.

 

A guardian.

 

The soft towel greedily absorbs the last drops of water. Fresh clothes complete the feeling of coming home.

 

Now breakfast.

 

Let’s see…

 

Bacon.

 

A couple of eggs.

 

There.

 

While they sizzle in the pan, a glass of cold milk.

 

A thick slice of bread.

 

Butter.

 

Cheese.

 

Coffee machine…

 

Zzzzzzz…

 

Done.

 

A cup of espresso jolts my senses awake.

 

The first small sip of cold milk…

 

And…

 

Ah…

 

The world transforms.

 

I never drink to cure a hangover…

 

Only this.

 

A shower.

 

Coffee.

 

Milk.

 

Hot fried eggs.

 

Soft bread.

 

Butter.

 

Thin slices of cheese.

 

The amazing thing about simple comforts is that they keep you from sliding into a week-long drunken haze.

 

I fear that outcome.

 

And that fear stops me.

 

I endure the pain, but it passes.

 

By lunchtime, I’m ready for life again…

 

Though the smell lingers.

 

I know people who calmly take another shot or crack open a beer.

 

By evening they’re wrecked again.

 

Drunk tears and garbage.

 

No.

 

Not for me.

 

So…

 

What have we got here?

 

Whoa.

 

That’s a lot of unanswered messages.

 

And texts?

 

Damn.

 

If they could come alive, they’d turn into a swarm of tiny piranhas, biting at my hands and feet, trying to latch onto my throat and tear out my Adam’s apple.

 

What nonsense…

 

Come on!

 

What’s the problem?

 

I didn’t answer for one evening…

 

One night…

 

And one morning…

 

Ha-ha.

 

Hmm…

 

Threats.

 

“I’ll leave you!”

 

Ha!

 

Leave whom?

 

Me?

 

I don’t belong to you anyway.

 

Yours is over there working, working out, taking you to the sea, buying you rings.

 

He probably enjoys feeling powerful next to your childish helplessness.

 

You can twist him around your finger…

 

At least until he gets tired of it.

 

Fine.

 

I should answer.

 

Calm down the passion.

 

And the lust.

 

Wouldn’t hurt to relieve a little pressure myself.

 

Damn…

 

Ha-ha…

 

Before I get “abandoned.”

 

Let’s see…

 

A reply…

 

There we go.

 

Much better.

 

Looks like I’ve got a great evening ahead.

 

I’ll reserve a table in that cozy restaurant with the discreet entrance and the private booth inside.

 

The owner owes me a favor.

 

He’ll draw the curtains and give me time to indulge my body and feed the ego of my infantile companion.

 

Damn…

 

Sometimes I actually feel sorry for them.

 

I’ve got so many options.

 

They have none.

 

They grew up without ever becoming adults.

 

They chase excitement because they have a safe harbor waiting at home.

 

They think it’ll always be there.

 

They’re afraid of losing their little pleasures on the side.

 

Afraid of losing me.

 

Ha!

 

Someone who doesn’t belong to them.

 

And they think that’s what real love is.

 

Probably read it in books.

 

Saw it in movies.

 

They won’t put in a drop of effort to build something with the person already beside them.

 

That’s hard.

 

It requires effort.

 

Compromise.

 

Responsibility.

 

Much easier to sneak around and then complain about not being noticed.

 

And there are plenty of men like that too.

 

Because responsibility is scary.

 

But there’s another fear.

 

That one day someone simply leaves.

 

Turns off the phone.

 

Gone.

 

Just like that.

 

And happiness happens somewhere else.

 

Not with you.

 

Maybe with someone like me.

 

No, I’m not a gigolo.

 

I’m doing fine.

 

The war gave me more than painful memories.

 

It left me well provided for.

 

I’ve got a roof over my head.

 

And I’m not bad-looking either.

 

Probably.

 

But taking on the burden of carrying an adult who can’t make decisions…

 

A grown child…

 

No thanks.

 

Not interested.

 

Don’t like it?

 

Go to hell.

 

Still…

 

Sometimes I feel sorry for them.

 

What’s wrong with me?

 

— The mirror…