Mon dieu

Matthieu’s head had fallen apart and then came together again, like an implosion backwards. The alcohol had worked quickly this time, not that he was convinced. The whole room was alive, spinning. It doesn’t take much does it, for your whole body to reject itself in one lurching up heave.

He knew right away he wasn’t where he thought he had been, in her apartment, drinking her coffee, sharing a cigar and possibly more. He had fallen asleep in the hallway again. Another night spent alone locked out of his apartment watching the lights flicker.

He slightly lifted his head in an attempt to assure himself that he was drunk and not exactly dreaming again, although Matthieu was finding it hard to discern dream from reality in the way that both had began to overlap. Among the dim red light was silence. It breathed down Matthieu’s neck, consuming him. He was suffocated by it, yet he didn’t know.

“Mon dieu,” he said.

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