The red curtains are bleached to a useless pink by the heavy sunshine piling into them. It’s like this for twenty-two hours a day at this time of year. The window’s open, but lack of wind makes the curtain motionless, dumb. The heat of the room has Pyotr pinned to the sofa bed – his head hammered to the pillow. A body thrown down by over a litre of hard booze – it looks like he fell a mile to hit this bed. He’s nearing the end of his block of sleep though – vodka sweats trail down his forehead, across his cheek. Right now the body is oblivious to what waking might bring. Drunken sleep – it’s the most stupid, valuable sleep a body can get.
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It takes a few moments. Recognising the room, scraping the sweat from his face and back of his neck. Sprawled out on comfortable lumps of linen, he considers how much to sigh, which way to move his head first. The first litmus test of the day – how is the hangover? Some mundane, automatic movement will tell him. None of it’s automatic until he knows the forecast though. Hopefully it’s not one which turns the three-metre toilet trips into a desert crawls for survival, or one which throws in sudden ideas of suicide – alien though such thoughts are alien otherwise.
He suspects it’s a jovial one though – the type which is really the happy tail of drunkenness, like the feeling after a few quick shots, but just a bit more bruised around the brain. He goes for it – lets out a deep bellowing sigh. Seems fine – seems really fine. A quick arch up from the bed, a tug at his underwear - cock feels good, feels good to feel it. This is a good one.
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Pyotr pretty much tap dances to the toilet – happy that the shit, and the day, are not going to be a battle. Sitting on the bowl he thinks about breakfast – eggs, loads of them, sliced sausage – fried in a swill of oil. He hurries his wiping so he can get to work on the cooking.
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The innards of the fridge are perfectly arranged – eggs ordered, sausage wrapped in greased paper sits at a precise angle in the corner, two unopened packs of milk face the same way with a neat centimetre gap between them. He never takes this care with food – not even in the eating.
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In no time four eggs are crackling away in the pan and Pyotr is almost laughing at their idiot, wobbling yokes when she walks in.
‘Morning to you mum – breakfast is on the go. Eggs and sausage. Sit yourself down. A coffee too, eh?’
‘Well, Pyotr. I don’t know what to say. Thank you.’
‘No problem mum. Few things make me happier than cooking a morning breakfast for you. And, anyway – you’ll be cooking tonight. I’ve got a friend coming round to meet you. A foreign friend from America. I want you to cook pork steaks with onions. He’ll like that.’
‘Oh Pyotr – I’m not sure…’
‘Mum, mum, mum – don’t worry – I’ve got money. I’ll buy the lot and some nice vodka for this one.’
Pyotr cocks a smile and taps his pocket a few times.
‘You know what – I think we could do with a new tablecloth for this one. We’ll go shopping after this breakfast mum.’
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