22. Celery

You wake beneath an inflatable palm tree. You kick it off you. The light of day does not hurt as much as anticipated.

Thirsty, you sit and swing legs off leather couch, follow hallway to the kitchen. The fridge is cosmopolitan with magnets. Slugging water, you do not recognise anyone in a wall of family photographs.

If these walls could talk, they would show discretion and keep certain stories for select company. The art, the appliances, the CD rack reaching to the ceiling present a travelled man. The stain on the patio, pin pricks in the hallway ceiling, turmeric in the freezer - these are the scar that crosses left palm's heart line, inflicted by wine glass caught but then shattered on bench top's corner. Trophies of barely-adventures, evidence of bad ideas pursued together.

Someone is talking, if not the walls. You follow voices to the open bathroom doorway. The guys are sipping bloody marys and talking with the medicine cabinet.

Pete: 'So I've woken to a table covered in crumpets.'

Frank: 'You still ate some. Soz froze a few packs.'

A voice which you do not recognise and cannot see the owner of: 'No Turkish bread?'

Chris: 'No, but we did take the bread trolley. Pete insisted we take it to the skate park the next night.'

'To dump at the skate park.'

The voice knows where this is going: 'Al tried to Ollie the bread trolley.'

James: 'You would have had company if we didn't remember his pass code spelt "fuck".'

'She can keep him.' The voice gibes. 'Sounds like you lot are doing fine without me.'

Pete sees you first, but Chris follows his eyes: 'We found a replacement.'

Sentiment agreed upon by cohort, who greet you with lift of glasses.

'Well then, once more?'