Another Friday Night...

Sitting alone on another Friday evening, I feel the compulsion to enter into the night like the masses of people that pass my window every weekend. The inner drive to participate in these weekend rituals is a strong instinct, shared by our collective conciousness and compelling us to walk the street for that perfect experience or person, with most of us returning home feeling jaded by the whole experience. But as sure as the world keeps turning, they return home after another day in the grinder to apply their lipstick and foundation and return to the street searching for that unmistakable connection to a fellow human being.

I fight the instinctive drive and find solace in a bottle of Chevis Regal and the husky voice of Tom Waits playing on my laptop, which used to belong to an ex-lover that had long been forgotten. The recorded sound of the worn needle scratching against the contours of the vinyl surface seem in harmony with the stilted lyrics from the abused voice of a discontented bar fly on his last round of drinks. I pull my last cigarette out of the crumpled packet sitting on the side table next to a crystal glass where two ice cubes slowly dissolve, turning bold amber liquid into a translucent shadow of its former self. Taking a lighter out of my jacket pocket, I spark the end of the cigarette and watch the tobacco slowly ignite, creating a luminescent crimson glow. I draw back slowly, feeling all the nerves in my body pulse as the intoxicating smoke penetrates deep inside my fragile lungs.

As I take the last draw on the already expired cigarette an uneasy feeling falls over me, for I will need to replenish the empty packet on the side table before addictive properties of this cancerous cocktail overwhelm this discontented psyche. Regaining my balance, I take my wallet from an empty fish bowl that houses an assortment of objects found on my daily travels, pushing through the hard wood door which shelters me from the outside world, walking through the corridor and out into the night.

As I walk through the streets, passing small clusters of people trying to extricate themselves from there own lives, I keep my eyes to the ground to hide my drunken state and avoid any accidental interaction that could take place. Walking around the bend at the end of the street I enter the flickering lights of the 24hour convenience store. I stumble through the door trying to cover the four scotches previously digested; but upon reaching the counter I look into the clerks eyes and see my subterfuge has not gone as well as expected. I manage to mutter out a few legible words that the clerk easy translates out of years of experience into 2 packets Malboro lights. I retrieve my purchases and make a hasty retreat back to my small room.