It is just another Friday night - a hard week that goes by with hardly any sleep. One day crossfades into another through the week. It is an effort to recall what the week was - breakfasts don't exist, lunches are forgettably bad and dinners are wisps at the bottom of a glass. Everything else, in between, is code.
Most tick time by little (and, possibly, insignificant) events - 'I had the frothiest cappuccino at four in the evening' or 'I'm looking forward to grabbing some dinner with a friend tomorrow' or 'My mom made the most divine lunch ever last afternoon'. My clock ticks a different tone punctuated by lines of text that the average person would term nonsensical - every sentence in English does not end with a semi-colon.Weekends pass by in a daze - a daze induced by the deficit of sleep. Successful polyphasic sleep is, quite literally, a dream in the attempt to squeeze in more hours of awake time and chasing that vision of a life that revolves around lazing on a sunny beach. A mild state of insomnia ensues where habituated lack of sleep becomes normalcy. Sleep, often, is found at the bottom of a bottle in an alcohol induced daze.
The speakers thump out a deafening bass. The surrounding air shudders and the bottle cap inches a little more towards the edge of the table. I swig my beer and the metallic aftertaste of the crown lingers in my mouth. There are several bottles and glasses on the table and crumpled tissues litter the floor. The lights flash on and off - the private party on the level above is slowly reaching its climax. Drunk men and women gyrate to the music. Each of them think that their bodies are moving in sync with the music - graceful and fluid - just like how I imagine two months of dance classes would have stamped out every little bit of the uncoordinated movement that my body could have ever produced.
The alcohol sinks in. I pay the bill and walk out. My colleagues follow. The valet brings the car. I stake my claim on riding shotgun. Someone asks for cigarettes - it's too late to find another packet. I fish some out of my pocket, mentally promising to quit. The ignition kicks into life and there's music competing with the sound of traffic. I roll up the window. It's a little over ten minutes to get home but the streetlights seem harsher that they were when we walked in. I promise to myself to write more this year.
My phone rings.
"Hey.......thank you so much. "
