It’d been a Tuesday when he’d laid down, but he’s not entirely sure how long he’s been laying, so he has to conclude that it’s Wednesday now. Tipping his head back, he examines the window across the room. Based on the trajectory of the moon and the angle at which light is severed by the blinds, he has to assume that he has no idea what time it is. Early morning, he guesses.
Of course he could have just checked the phone pressed against his bare chest, but that’d only make him more antsy, and being any more nervous would distract him from the ceiling.
He’s decided, in a moment of genius, that if you smoke the right amount of pot but simultaneously create a solution with the right amount of alcohol; the ceiling fan suddenly becomes a piece of art meant to be analyzed.
In other words, he’s more stoned than Saint Stephen.
But the living room carpet is comfortable enough for a man who’s practically numb. The bruises littering his chest and back are dark and foreboding, as if to form a portent. Truthfully, he hasn’t moved much in the past few hours, so he hasn’t really felt the effect of his injury.
Too busy staring at the ceiling fan.
Damn, when is Circe getting here?