1:58 pm. I'm sitting on my couch, my mind foggy. I had a porter at 11:30 and a spliff ten minutes ago. My partner comes out of the bathroom, after a shower, lifting her leg to expose her ankle.
"I just shaved. Why did you go to the car to smoke?"
"I don't know."
The window is open, I hear the drone of cars driving on i-5, punctuated by the occasional rumble of a large truck, and the rhythmic, high-pitched, clear chirping of a bird nearby.
A rustle of cigarette being twisted, dry tobacco falling into a bowl to be Moched. sitting together quietly.
The bowl is part of a bong, sitting on a dark brown Ikea coffee table. In the middle of the table is a squat cylindrical vase full of yellow tulips. I have been watching them. Two days ago, when first put into the vase, they drooped dramatically. Yesterday, they straightened up, their tops curling outwards as they started to bloom. Today, they spring out of the vase chaotically, like snakes. On some, the outer petals are starting to fold out.
4:27 pm. I am back on the couch. My freshly-showered head feels a slight breeze, from the window which is still open, and the back of my neck burns. I have just returned home from a haircut, where the barber accidentally cut me. The cut looks something between a rug-burn and a hickey, curving from the back of my neck to the side. The haircut was $28, before the tip, which I still gave. I didn't even feel the cut until she pointed it out. I hope that in the future, no one reads this and thinks to themselves, "wow, in 2025 a haircut was only $28." If this, by some bizarre circumstance, happens, how much does a haircut cost now?
7:59 pm. I am still on the couch. I have just finished watching an NBA playoff game. Pacers vs Cavs- the Pacers won heartily, to my surprise and excitement. It was a Mother's Day massacre not unlike the game they played on Mother's Day against the Knicks last year. They must want to make their moms proud.
I spoke to my mom on the phone today. We talked about the world, and film, and found plenty of room for laughter. I am flying back to see her next month. I find flight safety statistics only moderately reassuring after comparing them to recent headlines, but it still beats driving. I'm looking forward to the starkness of the desert, the cool nights, the old haunts of home. i-5 continues to roar through the window. Winding down, it connects to i-10, which goes all the way home, like an artery. The cars are like cells zooming through, each with their own purpose.
My neck itches. The bird is still chirping, joined by an evening warbling bird. I look at the blue line blinking in the "Edit Your Writeup" box, wondering how to end this. My joint's gone out. I get up and relight it, watching the light fade from the sky, full of clouds so blue-grey they are almost purple. I can see glimpses of the cars on i-5 through thick foliage. Their headlights look like fireflies.