95. God of the Game

Sabbath

Ah...the seventh day; roused by the digital clock blinking as if it’s a lighthouse revolving by the rocky beaches of my bed, a beacon for ships sailing in the sea of dreams. The green linear lines of time state 10:39, and I swam another fifteen minutes in that aquatic blue of fantasies, which merges with the horizon as one huge azure cloud, a fabric flowing on from an earlier cobalt hour. I am both bird and fish as I straddle groggy over a bowl. Urine makes foamy waters, and I am flying, or swimming, away again into drowsiness when the reverie is suddenly snapped by my wet, indigo striped, boxer shorts.

Shit! Totally awake now. They’re new, and they were fresh from the cupboard. Stripped, showered, freshened up; the mint of fluoride paste evokes a caffeine crave.

Raided the kitchen garbed only in clean undies – cerulean and decorated in a history lesson on timepieces – but gawked at the Star Wars wall-clock instead. Darth Vader, in offence, pointed his red lightsaber just after eleven, whilst Luke Skywalker’s thrusting blue beam blocked where three would have been if there were numbers on the counterfeit product plastic guide that dictates the tempo of my life.

Mulling over, weighing the choices, I could call some people up to spend the day with, provided they’d not made plans, or...nah, had a hectic week, spirit’s clamouring for a few chilled-out hours. Maybe dinner I would want company.

Patronized Starbucks solo. A light frilly chicken sandwich winged by lettuces and weighted with tomatoes and with onions dribbling by the side was sumptuously accompanied by the roasted brew of the day. Dark, creamy; infuses both nostrils and brain cells.

Then I went back up to the apartment. I was determined not to do anything productive. Watched a Robert Rodriguez film followed by a Yasmin Ahmad direction; Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon then rocked the CD player with its psychedelic groove, and by the time the lady screamed her lungs out after the moody ballad of piano and slide guitar, I was already at my own dark side of consciousness; her orgasmic opus, in my dozed off daze, sang like a deal with the devil. How much Money (incidentally, the name of the following track) was involved, I never hung around to hear.

Rather, an olive pond greeted me, and I frolicked with frogs.

Woke up in ennui now; this cycle, creeping out of slumber, is such a bane. Anyway, loneliness now is no friend of mine; so I desperately sought out solitary souls. Not worth mentioning; they were boring; a man-and-wife couple of more than ten years, a bachelor in his twenties attached to an IT firm which services banks’ auto-teller machines, and a fifty-six-year-old divorcee – married twenty-five years; her husband, ten years her junior, absconded with her sister, ten years her senior. The bland Italian delivery and Chinese takeout were the highlights of a sonorous but anal evening.

Goodnight...!

AI generated art prompted by author

All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.