He staggered from the balcony, through the sleeping area of the studio, and into the kitchen, swaying with every step and threatening to collapse. It wasn’t booze that made him this way, he’d given that up weeks before, trying to repair the unrepairable. It was fatigue, haven’t spent the last week largely sleepless in Seattle. There was a joke somewhere in that realization, he told himself. But he couldn’t quite tease out the threads of the matter and he wasn’t much in the mood for a joke anyway.
Instead, he joined in with the music he had playing far too loud for three a.m., something more he was aware of, but couldn’t be bothered to remedy.
“I can wait a long long time before I hear another love song,” he belted with the drunken belligerence of sleepless not giving a fuck.
Having apprehended the “European style” kitchen of his apartment, with it’s vanilla-colored surfaces trimmed in oak-stained pine, he realized he couldn’t say why he had found it so important to reach the kitchen in the first place, turned and swayed to the futon he called his bed. The original intent, of course, was to convert the futon to a couch in the daylight when he first bought it, but he found that to be more bother than it was worth when he had no guests to sit on a couch with.
He plopped himself down and fell back, not caring the pillows were at his feet instead of under his head. God, but he needed a drink, he told himself. If he had a shot of Jameson, he was sure he would sleep. Instead, he watched the stars that appeared on the ceiling, a product of withdrawal and sleeplessness. The ceiling turned with the music. I think you’re beautiful, beautiful, some kind of stranger, come inside…
The stars winked and waved at him and he gave them a crooked smile. “Hey, stars, hey,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I see you decided to drop by…”
And he danced with the stars, twirling into space, never-ending spirals of song.