The Man who fell from the Sky: a tipple

He rose from the bed. She breathed quietly, unmoved, still, beauty banked and slumbering. She was beautiful when asleep. He thought nothing. He walked on bare feet out of the bedroom to his office and over to the chair in the corner and sat.  A little yellow light on her desktop computer breathed too, in and out, sleeping. He could hear the silence, a whispering cacophony that never ceased. He stood. The floor outside the room was cold, but he wanted a Scotch. He fumbled for a glass in the disheveled bar, taking a swig from the bottle at the same time. He found a paper cup, decorated with Santa scenes. ‘Well, he was a jolly old elf’. Simon poured carelessly, five fingers, nearly topping the cup. He sipped a bit out to keep from sloshing the drink, then padded back into the room and the chair. In the bedroom she slept still. He could not.


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