Twilight ambles through and bares a window across its semi-naked body. Pierre’s faceless monotone mood escapes through the gaps in the bathroom door and Mary feels the sickening thump of yesterday’s absinth beating her head to a pulp.
-Monsieur, please wake up. Monsieur, the doors are being locked and you must leave. You cannot stay here anymore. The doors are being locked.
Stretched out on his back on the floor Pierre summons a god-awful moan from the pit of his stomach and prises his right eye wide open with his thumb and forefinger, cutting through the waiter with a blank pinhole stare.
-We are forever on the floor my lords ladies and gentleman’s toilet. Vomit flows into piss through the valleys and the joins, the valleys and the joins. Always making notes to myself I am, but never reading the damn things back. Which is why I am always on the floor, my table of a waiter of a lover-man, mine.
Catoptric
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