Tiny Vessels

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  • Publiceret: 13 okt. 2017
  • Opdateret: 6 mar. 2018
  • Status: Igang
Short stories set in the universe of my novel Vessel.

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3. Friday

Water drops dripped into the bathroom sink, making a distinctive sound as they splashed against the hard surface.

Turning off the tap with a cold and shivering hand, he cursed his body for letting this control his limbs. Eventually, the shaking stopped, and by then, he'd already moved forward. He needed to go grocery shopping, urgently, actually.

There was no rice, or milk, not even a rotten avocado.

With this mission at hand, he picked his trenchcoat up from the living room couch, his shoes from right beside the doormat and his biker gloves from ontop the small hallway table.

One wouldn't be going out for rice after that, and at this hour, but he did, he needed rice for the meat, those two went hand-in-hand, and if he didn't go shopping now, he'd go to bed hungry.

The city-lights were dimmed despite it being Friday night, one of the wildest days of the week with all the partying and late-night drinking, and what-not.

Clouds of c02 escaped his lips every time he exhaled, January nights weren't the warmest of nights, that was obvious to any fool.

Maybe that was what could explain the deceased night-life.

Sky-high buildings stood tall, suffocating you, making you feel insignificant and small like a fireant.

Continuing down the street, he crossed a one-way and entered a backstreet, going through a rusty metal door and tapping the dirty snow off of his boots, the mat sucking up the moisture.

Soda and snack machines lined up the right side of the store, on the other a long counter, the end of it barely touching the top of the heater by the street-window.

A shaggy man in his early 20's walked out from the personnel office, scratching the back of his head, his oily brown bangs falling in front of his eyes as he raised his head to look at the customer.

"Dakoda, my man."

The man greeted in a distinct New-York accent, raising the sleeves of his work-blouse, revealing dozens of faded greenish tattoos.

"Need rice, milk and some spices." He ordered, not even bothering to return the polite greeting.

"Long day?" The cashier guessed, oblivious, looking for the cardamone seeds he'd asked for.

"Yeah." Was all he managed to say. When everything had been found and payed for, he took one step toward the door before being stopped by the cashier.

"Did something happen?" They asked, head tilted and arms crossed.

"I just haven't had my dinner." He answered, leaving the store without another word.

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