The builders were waving their rods around outside the window.
‘Shove that rod in ‘ere.’
‘I shoved my rod in ‘er!’
I thought about it for a while before deciding that the best way to deal with this situation was to put my fist through the window. Logical and sagacious, little bits of glass fell into the road and sparkled madly in the sunlight next to the builder’s cement mixer. Insignificant ribbons of red began to appear around each tiny laceration in my skin, trickling down the back of my hand like vomit over a kerb, the end result of an electrifying and disease-ridden night out. My hand grew cold in the winter’s air, shards of glass sticking out at jaunty angles. The mildly artistic could have appreciated it’s bitter sense of irony, likely fabricated for the purpose of sharing in basements, veins full of black and bread pudding, the communal experience of existence.
‘That rod’s too thick.’
‘That’s what she said.’
I started laughing, slightly overcome with insanity, mostly genuinely, fallaciously, entertained by their indisputable comic genius. I decided to withdraw my hand from the sharp embrace of the window pane and the jagged edges cut into the brainless flesh on the underside of my wrist. Meandering over to the sofa, the trail of red behind me seeped most deeply into the fluffy carpet and promised to give the landlord a talking point, at the very least. I sat down in time to see a man get eaten by a dinosaur. Don’t get cheap on me, Dodson. A brusque voice pulled me away, to where the glass fragments lay on the street outside.
‘We’ve ran out of rods.’
‘I’ve got a rod you can use right here!’
It was certainly a day to cherish, bleeding out and covered in distance.