Sunday Morning

The doorbell sounded kind of early for a Sunday. It was Nick. He stepped inside the house, looked up and down the hallway, then looked back at me.

“What… a… dump.” 

He kicked the front door closed with his foot.

I’d only just got out of bed to open the door. I was standing there in my jocks.

Nick proceeded to the lounge room. I followed him, I’m sure scratching my arse.

In the lounge he emptied his pockets of bags of pills and bags of powders.

“Had a good night, have you?”

He was clearly a little worse for wear.

“Hang on,” he said. He pulled a bag of pot from his back pocket. “Go put something on so I don’t have to stare at your tiny todger, then roll that into something we can smoke. I’m going to make tea.”

I took in a big breath, it felt like my first of the morning.

“Go on, get on with ya, the fucking joint isn’t going to roll itself.”

I turned and headed back to my room for track pants and a hoddie.

“Have you been playing with yourself, before I got here?”

“No, you woke me up.”

“Oh, wash your hands anyway, just to be safe.