The Perils of High Maintenance

Echoes. echoes of language I don’t speak, yet understand. Quickly dragged from a preposterous stream of delirious imagery, I awake. Gathering my thoughts I glace at my surroundings. Unfamiliar and awfully pink. My arm seems to aches like infection. I turn my head. Tamzin. A fantastical creature with glorious blonde hair that spreads like wild fire across her bed. She stirs. Her ripe lips glisten as the sun that peers over the horizon and through the window. Watching as her eyes slowly adjust to reality, I make my exit.

I don’t usually wind up running down the road with my trousers round my ankles at rush hour. However, today’s an exception. Stumbling through my front door, I toss my stray cloths, and dart for the shower. A quick wash and dress, then another sharp exit. Just in time to avoid harassment from a greasy landlord blathering on about overdue rent.

Reaching the airport in my clapped out Volkswagen, I realise im already a good half hour late to meet my girlfriend at terminal nine. She had just been out to St Lucia for a mates twenty first. I managed to escape the ordeal due to “work commitments”. Don’t get me wrong St Lucia is a picturesque place: blue skies, white sand , clean living. But this is all irrelevant, because when you wake, you look into her eyes and all you see is two barrels.

The End

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