Dark circles surround his sunken eyes as he stares at the screen. He raises a hand with prominent veins marshalled by the tendons and places it against his marginally stubbly chin. The stubble is the result of three days of saying “I can shave in the morning” but then getting up a full hour after his alarm goes off. He pushes his chin slowly to one side, easing it across until he hears the loud crack that means his neck will feel less stiff for ninety seconds.
His shoulders drop in relief. He moves the hand that was on his chin through his untidy brown hair, pulling it out on the top before leaving it in its untidy state. His eyes shift to the corner of the screen where 01:39 stares accusingly at him. He yawns as it does, apologising to himself that he once again hasn’t got that early night.
He reaches forward with a hand, meaning to close the laptop, when inspiration strikes. All aches and pains are forgotten and his eyes burn with intensity that he hasn’t seen in days. His fingers, long and slender as if meant for a wholly different kind of keyboard, begin to fly across the keys, words forming on the blank page before him. He writes and he writes and he writes, pausing only to accuse his muse of sleeping on the job but thanking her for reappearing when he needed her most.
He lifts a hand to his mouth, running dirty fingernails across his chapped lips. A deep sniff, then he leans back to observe his handiwork.
He speaks, with a low tenor voice. “That’s shit.”
I should know this person well. I see him in the mirror every day.
I didn’t skip a day! Please, check out Day 218 because it is there, it just got posted late. Oops.
The Idiot in Tin Foil