The Percentage

I wake up and it is around 6 am. It is a Saturday so the world is still asleep. I realize how much waking up without a hangover is worse than having a hangover. My body betrays me. I can hear a few of the neighbors stirring. I wonder what is going through their minds; if they care that it is a Saturday or that for them weekends are a myth. You know? Kids. I look at my phone that is lying at the side of the bed. Neglected. It rarely buzzes. Not on weekends. Not on weekdays. I am not missed. Not at least as much as I should be. Let alone the few notifications from a group chat; there’s nothing much going on. I plug it in.

23 percent.

It lights up with the sound of a distant ping.  I look at the phone and catch a glimpse of a message. It fades back into its darkness. I am not sure whether I want to read through the messages. So I leave it and let it charge. I get out of bed and my body is protesting. It creaks like I am an old bag of bones. I am only a bag of bones.  The cold at 6 am is usually unforgiving. I dare to brace it but my feet curl when they make acquaintance with the floor. Cold. Hard. Hard. Cold. I wade through the fading sleepiness and the streams of struggling sunlight.

A straight stream of yellow pee shoots out of my member and hits the side of the bowl. I see some splash outside onto the seat. I never leave it up. The last few drops sputter out. It feels like I am becoming brand new. Like I have let out all the negativities of the nights. Peed my nightmares and insomnia away. Another ping.

31 percent.

This time I look at my phone. The light from the screen competing for space behind my pupils. My eyes complain but not enough. They get used to it and adjust. I notice my curtains are still drawn back. It is a message from yet another group. That one and the first. It is nothing important. Just a delayed response to some of last night’s banter. Banter I did not participate in. I put the phone back down. Ignored. I make a mental note to mute the whole lot of them. Maybe leave some; actually; I make a note to leave some. If not all.

I put on the laptop that’s on a side table at the side of the bed. I think I need something funny to warm me up to the day. I do not feel especially cordial to it today. This happens when I am broke. I. Am. Always. Broke. I go through a few Kevin Hart movies I have. Funny chap. Loud. But funny. I have an admiration for his hustle. He puts in work. The movie starts to play. I hate the generic sound Hollywood movies have as an excuse for intros. Okay. I like 20th Century intros. But that’s about it. The rest need to go where my pee went. Phone pings.

34 percent.

I look at the phone. I am not squinting anymore as I have become accustom to the light. It is a message this time. Legit. From a leaving breathing human being. I am elated. I do not get many of these. Not unless I send a blast to all my 23 contacts.

Good morning. It reads.

I am not having a good morning but I know better. I will not ruin a conversation that has not started yet.  Maybe.

What’s good about it? I hit back.

I get the two gray ticks. Which quickly turn to blue. Then nothing. I like how technology will be the first to tell you that you are being ignored. I guess it comes without having emotions. I put the phone back down. I don’t feel bad. I am used to it already.

42 percent.

Kevin Hart is making a relatable jokes on weddings. I laugh. I have my phone in hand.

Us.

That is the reply. I am not sure what to do with an us (which weirdly sounds like anus). People should learn to speak for themselves. But I guess this could be called flirting. I read through the message again and try to find any undertones. I can’t.

Sure.

I feel like my reply is cold. Sure. An undressed word on a Saturday morning.

J

I think that makes it better. It should. But I also know that that kills it. I killed a conversation and I have not had breakfast yet. Imagine me on a full stomach. I know.

53 percent.

I mean us.

The reply seems curt. Written under a veil of contempt. I look at my phone. I am no longer concentrating at whatever Kevin (I can call him Kevin now) is doing on screen. I think through my mind; run thoughts against each other. Let them collide. I think I know what she means. Or do I? It hits me. Flirting.

She and I are ingredients. Us the product. Good ones. For the morning. I am getting slow. My wits are not what they used to be. This must what be waking up to a sober mind feels like. I don’t like it. I also don’t know what to say. The phone pings again. I ignore it. Let it sit there for a while.

62 percent

Nyama leo?

I like this question. I like what it holds for the future. There’s no us in this question.

Sure.

It doesn’t feel cold when I use it this time. It fits in perfectly. I guess it is just how we relate. And you know… People relate differently. Others gel together perfectly while others need to be hammered in. I like the perfect gel. I can fit in nicely and I can also exist on my own. When I have to be hammered in. The fit is tight. I can’t leave. At least not easily.

63 percent.

Oh yeah. We are definitely good.

I reply. I do not like leaving messages hanging. Unless I am pissed off for some reason. I like having my conversations killed or concluded; which sometimes is one and the same thing.

Sawa. 2PM.

I now have a time and a date. I guess mornings are not entirely that bad. I jump out and leave Kevin cracking his jokes. I head to the closet, grab a neglected coat that hangs at the back, pull out a small bottle. Vodka. I drown a swig to the back of my throat, it burns. I like it.

battery charge

 

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2 thoughts on “The Percentage

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  1. The day somebody asks what’s good about a “good morning” is the day it will end. It is sure a nice way of killing small talk. My ideal conversation doesn’t even need to start with greetings or howya. Jump straight into nyama leo?

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