Morning light attacks through a tear in the curtains.
"...the ****?"
Time to wake up.
"Oh."
Tuesday. Anything but Tuesday. At least Mondays you can hate. People will know what you mean. Tuesdays just are.
To its credit, this Tuesday will be different from the last. Because today, he's going on a date.
"Going" is actually a lie. She's coming over, they always do. Speaking of going, he never really does. The way he stays put without any help would probably be impossible outside the internet age.
He opens a cupboard, only to find an empty jar of instant coffee. He was bound to run out, he knew he would, it's just he pushed it off his mind. "Why call it instant, anyway? You're still expected to make it..." he asks himself, pretending to relay the question to whoever decided on the name.
Sitting on the couch with a cup of hot water, he switches on the TV and skims through his favorited channels. All subscription, mostly porn, and mostly not showing anything at this hour. He stops at BBC America.
"The Surrey Slaughterman' as dubbed by media still unidentified, says police. Latest victim attributed to the same killer is Crystal Mgawi, discovered by a neighbour who chooses to remain anonymous. Her death seems a repeat of previous 'Slaughterman' crimes, from the lack of an eyewitness to the accurate adherence to slaughterhouse procedure..."
"What a sick ****!" he thinks while lazily toying with the curls of his blond, medium-length hair.
Doorbell. He's dozed off at some point. It is midday, his pyjamas are damp and an empty cup lies at his feet. She's at the door. "Coming!" he yells while changing into a pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt. "Just like chess!" he notes, reminding himself of an impeccable fashion sense and a perceivably sharp wit.
"Hi you...you!"
She was beautiful. And never heard from again.
----------------------------
So I wrote this today. Would like to see some feedback, I guess, especially if you're Gebohq. Also, it's not interactive...
"...the ****?"
Time to wake up.
"Oh."
Tuesday. Anything but Tuesday. At least Mondays you can hate. People will know what you mean. Tuesdays just are.
To its credit, this Tuesday will be different from the last. Because today, he's going on a date.
"Going" is actually a lie. She's coming over, they always do. Speaking of going, he never really does. The way he stays put without any help would probably be impossible outside the internet age.
He opens a cupboard, only to find an empty jar of instant coffee. He was bound to run out, he knew he would, it's just he pushed it off his mind. "Why call it instant, anyway? You're still expected to make it..." he asks himself, pretending to relay the question to whoever decided on the name.
Sitting on the couch with a cup of hot water, he switches on the TV and skims through his favorited channels. All subscription, mostly porn, and mostly not showing anything at this hour. He stops at BBC America.
"The Surrey Slaughterman' as dubbed by media still unidentified, says police. Latest victim attributed to the same killer is Crystal Mgawi, discovered by a neighbour who chooses to remain anonymous. Her death seems a repeat of previous 'Slaughterman' crimes, from the lack of an eyewitness to the accurate adherence to slaughterhouse procedure..."
"What a sick ****!" he thinks while lazily toying with the curls of his blond, medium-length hair.
Doorbell. He's dozed off at some point. It is midday, his pyjamas are damp and an empty cup lies at his feet. She's at the door. "Coming!" he yells while changing into a pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt. "Just like chess!" he notes, reminding himself of an impeccable fashion sense and a perceivably sharp wit.
"Hi you...you!"
She was beautiful. And never heard from again.
----------------------------
So I wrote this today. Would like to see some feedback, I guess, especially if you're Gebohq. Also, it's not interactive...
Looks like we're not going down after all, so nevermind.