Southbank Centre, 2008
Sick with exhaustion, a woozy view of the barman tapping the coffee machine in time to tired French muzak. The room is filled to bursting point with haircuts and Guardian readers, and I suppose they’re my people. I huff a mug, stimulant desperately needed.
I’m still for a long time. ___________ My thumbnail is securely, reassuringly tucked under my top lip. I stare fixedly at whatever drifts into view. My front teeth clench behind my closed mouth, and I am hyper-sensitive to the tingling hum of my calves buzzing with a day’s blood and lactic acid.
This isn’t a mug of coffee. It is a slightly diluted quadruple expresso.
______________ I yearn for a headrest and clear my thoughts.
© Matthew Sheret, 2008