Awaken to the thick heat and my own heavy smell I jump to the edge of the bed. cigarette.now. My face feels inside out and I swing from bedroom door to bath in awe of my smooth transition I step to the pot for relief. A step too close I'm afraid, "ay maldicion!", the pain shoots up my toe and through my foot. Relieved. The cold water and soap on my face is a pleasant distraction from the throbbing pain crawling up my leg. Scrubbing on seventeen days of scruff, I scour and scratch deep with the cigarette half cocked out of the left side of my mouth. Pulling my bottom lip in to angle the fag down, using my thumb and index fingers to caress across my mustache and pushing my lip back out in an exaggerated pout to reverse the angle. Coming to the chin I pay a little more attention to the recent organization of grey hairs that have been gathering there as if they were aware they must have a show of force for me to pay them any mind. I count them, quickly, twenty-eight; "that many you bastards come and I can wash my face and smoke? How many more can I trade you to knit? Age, you fickle bitch, do or don't, but don't fuck with me I haven't the time nor patience."
Starting for the door I glance in the mirror those little grey bastards and my blood shot eyes still half full of wine from last night. Hangovers are meant for grey days. Out the door the sun somehow  bouncing off all four of the white walls and blinding me, I stumble to the street to make my way. The wine swishing in my head I sway rather lazily onto calle 30 feeling every time I lift my left foot the toe hit the rubber interior of my shoe where has been placed a ball pein hammer. My mind wanders, swimming in the ferment of grapes and sex and this damned swaying feeling. I imagine that crazy drunken Italian from the bus ride with what's left of my wine in one hand and the other on some rudder controlling the direction of my swaying head. Singing and blathering on and on in a mumbling drunk swirl of Italian, Spanish and French. I want to drown him.