By: Sasheera Gounden

He places the cold body of whiskey on the coffee table as headlines of the Times, glare back at him; monochrome faces, shiny sealskin letters and the stench of drunkenness at only ten in the morning. Relief sweeps over him as the effects of Prozac. The intoxicated memory of a late-night kiss at the age of eleven and a midnight fuck against the brick-clad wall, continuously loop within the hallways of his mind.

Fiery-red mane of hair as tendrils cling to her hazelnut, monolith nipples against milk-tea skin and the fragrance of apricots suffocate the nothingness of air. Large, iridescent cockroach feet flow across the apartment floor like carriages of a maroon-painted train. Rats’ faeces form pulps of black cake on the outskirts of his bed.

The vixen walks the same route as him and smiles, the Cheshire cat smile. She pulls out a thin Marlboro and withholds her breath, savoring the flavor and the chill of reality. He wishes to win her affection but doesn’t bother to attempt a conversation and ultimately denies that awkward, long, pause. He pulls out a flask of scotch instead and brings the nozzle to his lips as a long-awaited kiss. The hot, strong, pungent taste fills his lungs as he breathes. As long as he manages a breath today, structures, emotions and thoughts will keep moving.