Two days in a row. Joel says nothing to that remark while stripping off his shirt in the bathroom, because there's nothing to say. Nothing he wants to argue about. Nothing to negotiate. It is what it is, and that's the way it has to be.
The shirt is neatly discarded atop their shabby, plastic laundry basket that's splintering with age. His belt buckle is undone next, while he calls out, "No," to Tess' question, his voice boxy to his ears in the tiny bathroom.
'No', meaning 'yes'; no, he wants to keep drinking, whether it leaves him with a hangover tomorrow or not. How else is he going to get to sleep tonight if he's lying awake for hours, worrying about what they're going to do if this shipment of pills all goes to shit? He's out of oxys and benzos to dull his worries away into a sluggish sleep, so it'll have to be booze.
Jeans off and sweaty threadbare socks peeled off, the water shudders through the rusty pipes as the squeaky taps are turned on. An audible gasp, quick as a bitten down hiss, slips out through the ajar bathroom door as Joel steps under the needling cold spray. Shit, the unpleasant shock of it is almost enough to make Joel forget for the moment the whole damn shitty day. He upturns the egg timer kept in the chipped shower caddy that trickles faded blue sand to a countdown of three minutes, the maximum FEDRA-approved time limit for water usage, and begins furiously scrubbing himself down with QZ-manufactured bar soap.
Three minutes later, the taps squeak off and the pipes shudder back into silence. A few minutes after that, Joel emerges with his grey hair tousled dry and a ratty towel around his waist. He heads straight for the table to pour himself another finger of booze. Bottle thumped back on the table, glass snatched up, down it goes, tossed back and swallowed with gritted teeth. The fumes catch in his throat and he bites back a cough.
no subject
Two days in a row. Joel says nothing to that remark while stripping off his shirt in the bathroom, because there's nothing to say. Nothing he wants to argue about. Nothing to negotiate. It is what it is, and that's the way it has to be.
The shirt is neatly discarded atop their shabby, plastic laundry basket that's splintering with age. His belt buckle is undone next, while he calls out, "No," to Tess' question, his voice boxy to his ears in the tiny bathroom.
'No', meaning 'yes'; no, he wants to keep drinking, whether it leaves him with a hangover tomorrow or not. How else is he going to get to sleep tonight if he's lying awake for hours, worrying about what they're going to do if this shipment of pills all goes to shit? He's out of oxys and benzos to dull his worries away into a sluggish sleep, so it'll have to be booze.
Jeans off and sweaty threadbare socks peeled off, the water shudders through the rusty pipes as the squeaky taps are turned on. An audible gasp, quick as a bitten down hiss, slips out through the ajar bathroom door as Joel steps under the needling cold spray. Shit, the unpleasant shock of it is almost enough to make Joel forget for the moment the whole damn shitty day. He upturns the egg timer kept in the chipped shower caddy that trickles faded blue sand to a countdown of three minutes, the maximum FEDRA-approved time limit for water usage, and begins furiously scrubbing himself down with QZ-manufactured bar soap.
Three minutes later, the taps squeak off and the pipes shudder back into silence. A few minutes after that, Joel emerges with his grey hair tousled dry and a ratty towel around his waist. He heads straight for the table to pour himself another finger of booze. Bottle thumped back on the table, glass snatched up, down it goes, tossed back and swallowed with gritted teeth. The fumes catch in his throat and he bites back a cough.
"What's the plan for dinner?"