23. Bacon

You want to sleep-in but crave water. You are on the window-side of an otherwise empty queen-size bed. You slide out from the blanket and your feet find your clothes.

Vague memory guides your way to the kitchen. Bouncing in zigzag between the narrow hallway's walls would serve the same purpose, as you seem to recall. You slug a glass of water and pour another.

Your foot, the one with a sock on it, hits the microwave on the floor and you hiss: 'Mother-'

The microwave shrieks back: 'Rieeeesliiing.'

The microwave had done the same thing at some point last night. You cannot recall when exactly, what happened before and what happened after. The microwave's shrieking does not worry you, which worries you. You limp around the house, trying to find last night's lost chapters.

In the lounge room, blankets soften the shapes on the couches. A loose rug bumps limply on the far right ceiling. That's right. Flying rug.

Huh. You now crave fresh air and exit onto patio. A smoke machine ineffectually seeps an unimpressive last gasp of white vapour. The smoke is a projection screen for panel discussion hosting Aristotle and Pythagoras in dialogue with the off-screen inflatable palm tree.

Your head throbs too much for this. Somebody is in the bathroom so you piss outside. You refill your glass and retreat to bed. Last night's chronology is fuller but incomplete, with more pages but not their order.

Sleep's merciful fingers begin massaging pain away from your skull. Someone enters the room but, facing away from the door, you pretend to not notice. A weight rests on the bed's other half and a welcome hand slides up your thigh. You recall another chapter of last night and smile.