I chain-smoked the previous evening, legs crossed on a couch heavily patterned with florals of unknown kind. A wallflower, I was. A wallflower, I have always been.

The repercussion of feasting on Marlboros: a bruised throat; a metallic-blood after taste. Water never helped. Chewed on ice cubes for two hours: futile.

My bottle of Perriere water is the worst little evil in that room. Overpriced carbonated water for recovering alcoholics, for people who wish they could down alcohol because it looked Hollywood-ish but can not because alcohol is like bile with a price tag.

The room: mahogany, reminiscent of the fictional Corleones. Heavily curtained. Sunlight: unwelcome.

Then, I just had to sleep.

Tomorrow, who knows where I will be.