Vesta. It's a longer walk, but the food is greasier, the cooks surlier and far more accustomed to seeing my still-drunk half-hungover ass drag through the door on a weekday.
On the way I listen to RHCP. I get a kick out of the conflicting memories, feelings and emotions that go along with the album. Mission Beach in San Diego. Ex invoking the whore word in the parking lot of a Coffee Time. Same ex, balls deep in someone else while I do lines off a glass table. Buffy and Clueless and the Californian neon-tinted 90s. Point Break. October morning, packing up a trunk and watching my breath in the air.
Last night we hung out with misslake and ni. Blows were exchanged in parting, which was awesome. Nothing much like mistaking a van for a cruiser and yelling "Cops!" outside the Green Room on a Thursday evening. Attempted one-armed fisticuffs and gave up for the man to engage in a round of tap out with ni. misslake and I watched in amusement.
It bears noting that the man is awesome.
The coffee here is hot and that's all I ask of it. I am seated for less than 5 minutes before presented with my order. Over easy, white toast, bacon. Diner bacon is overcooked but not burned, the kind of heat lamp crispy that I love in microwaved bacon when I'm too lazy to do it properly. These eggs are perfect, floating on a layer of grease on the plate. The hash browns stopped resembling potatoes a few hours ago - the scoop off the hot plate dumped next to my eggs was the last of the batch. And hell no, I do not want ketchup you fucking heathens.
Stopped in at the office for drinks on the way home. What was supposed to be just a shot with the man turned into "keep it coming!!" and disbelief that the Leafs actually won something. Toronto doesn't win things, that's crazy talk. Cap'n tastes like pure vanilla extract after weeks of sipping Jack. I can't shake the feeling that I'm sitting on the wrong side of the bar, even though I know I'm physically incapable of doing my job. Get a ride home with my boss, rubbing salt in the wound.
The still-drunk part is wearing off and leading directly into full-blown hangover. More coffee. I just want to rest my head on the counter, someone carry me home. No longer in the mood for humans, I leave a ten next to my empty plate and book it. It's progressed to the point in the morning when children are running around. I turn up the music and stare at the sidewalk in front of me as somehow my feet keep moving one in front of the other.
I haven't been able to share the bed with the man for three weeks in fear that he may roll over and hug me, jar the collarbone and wake up with me screaming in his ear. But I really don't want to crash on the couch again. Laying in bed with him means being naked in bed with him which leads to [redacted]. I wake up on the couch anyway, bucket propped next to my head for just in case.
Post breakfast smoke on the balcony. Thank god for Western exposure and the sun behind the building.
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