Still half asleep she strolls along the pavement looking for a bakery. There is no bread left in the cupboard but there is a couple of teaspoons of coffee in the fridge. When sleep hasn´t yet let go of her she follows instinctively her footsteps. She randomly focuses her sight on whatever has captured her attention: a dog; a bicycle; a word sprayed on the wall; a face. Sleep protects her and guides her through the very awake crowd.
I think he is coming later on round her place. They were supposed to have breakfast together that day, but he phoned her to say that he unfortunately had to meet up somebody else.
She placed the loaf of bread on the table, took a seat and cut two slices from it. She was already thinking of the cigarette she was going to celebrate her breakfast with, so she didn´t have that much of an appetite.
She started spreading the butter on the first slice of bread. She had a bite of it before she decided what else she could spread on it. She had a sip of coffee and I guess we can call that the beginning of her breakfast. She switched the radio on and the whole wide world was there on her kitchen table.
Just when she thought she had woken up, the last drag of her cigarette brought about her sleep again.
‘I need a shower’ – she thought.
She could decide afterwards what she is going to wear, but she always dresses in the bathroom. She ties her shoe laces up back in the kitchen and has a look out of the window. The street down below is still there.
Any other day she would have headed on to the street, but he is coming round in a couple of hours.
She takes longer than that to get back home. Once she is on the street she finds it difficult to stop or to undo her steps. Tiredness is normally the only key back home. So now she had to think what to do in the meantime. She will think about it with another cigarette…And another cup of coffee…
She is sitting on the floor in the hallway with her back against the sidewall.
Her cup of coffee is resting on her knee and her cigarette is sometimes between her fingers and sometimes on the ashtray.
Her hair is dry now. It would have taken less time if she had been on the streets. The coffee is cold. She forgot about the two last sips.
There is definitely something to do in her bedroom. She had a mountain of magazines in the corner under the window. She grabbed a pair of scissors and started cutting out pictures, sentences, eyes, noses, shoes, dogs, trees, dresses, croissants, anything interesting.
In between the pages she found old receipts and some notes she had written to her old flat mates. ‘I’ve taken your woolly gloves. I thought you wouldn’t need them. Thanx. See ya’ tonight. Please not cus cus again, ok?’ She still has those woolly gloves.
I wonder which are the forces that keep things by our side. And which are the ones that part them from us.
The door bell rings. She runs to the door and opens the main entrance with a buzz…
