after a rough night I wake up in the muscular arms of a famed mobster who I don't remember the name of or even how I met her. I recognize her because I see her face in the newspaper that somehow ends up in front of me every morning. maybe in the coffee shop, maybe on my front step, maybe just reading over somebody's shoulder. there's still a glass of rum in my hand and a cigarette that has burned down to the filter on the nightstand. my left shoulder blade is burning. I clench my teeth when it makes contact with the couch I'm lying on. I'm wearing a full suit, the back of the white undershirt torn up leaving a gaping hole with the sleeves and front still intact. My tie is still neatly knotted, not a wrinkle in sight.
I try not to wake her. I slide out from beneath her arms, she sighs and turns over. I walk through the run-down apartment, which is covered in paint and food. There are several people sleeping on the floor throughout, some completely nude and others in full costume. There's a hole in the wall where I vaguely remember trying to escape to another dimension through last night. I don't know if I was successful or not. I accidentally step on somebody's hand, they grunt and roll over, apparently too intoxicated to care. Their face is covered in sharpie drawings that extend past their neck. I look closer. Those are tattoos. huh.
Nobody is awake. It's a little past eleven in the morning and everyone is deep in slumber. The smell of vodka and tobacco fills the entire house, ashtrays are scattered throughout the house, and each one looks to have been systematically knocked off of each table so that the ashes are scattered all over the floor, and settled on top of those sleeping near them.
My shoulder blade stings and reminds me of intense pain I felt in that region last night. I don't remember exactly what took place, but the memory of the pain remains. I stretch, reach into my pocket. A pack of cigarettes. No lighter. I sigh, take a cigarette out, put it between my lips. I walk around, my oxfords click on the hard wooden floor. A man in the nude is passed out, apparently he had done so while attempting to light another cigarette. A lighter is in his hand, a cigarette on his lower lip, his saliva adhering the paper. I carefully take the lighter from his hand, he doesn't flinch. Is he even breathing? I step closer, nudge his knee. He grunts, rolls on his side, vomits and then rolls back with a smile on his mouth. He's breathing.
I use the lighter, exhale the smoke which settles like a still cloud in the eerily quiet room. I find a bathroom, use the toilet and go to wash my hands. I turn my back to the mirror, see my shoulder blade.
An intricate tattoo, which is still red and irritated.
Just line work, no color. A spiral that extends and disappears into my skin. Four thick lines that spin around each other, and what looks like millions of hair-thin lines that intertwine with those.
Footsteps behind me.
"Morning babe."
This girl, the mobster, stands behind me with a mischievous grin.
"Crazy night, huh."
She gestures to the room behind her, obvious chaos took place.
I look at her in the mirror.
"Always."
