Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Mint based breakfast barbecue

We're out (Fusel and me) on the terracotta tiled roof garden this fine morning (cold mist crystal dawn in the cotton of our over-shirts) and looking out over the purple rooftops, across the incised plains to the low hills bent beyond the horizon's curve.

I am smoking a cardboard cigarette (a nicotine contraption made of silk thread and rice paper), and I have a thick black coffee in a tiny cup.

Fusel's fluting breath into his turbine pipe and holding a plastic disposable lighter, flicked on and off, over the bowl - fighting the early morning dampness, mist and fog, to get it lit.

We are standing apart, and not exactly facing (because of drunken information going each way the night before - we both know more about each other than we want to). But I hope there's still a friendship there, and it's just a hangover headache in the way. Plus, last night, I fired off into the East Midlands vernacular, and don't think he understood me.

There's an airship just lifting off out of the field two miles downwind. The morning blimp, dull-seamed with explosive gas, about to rise with engines whirring.

I have mint, meat and cheese to eat for breakfast (laid out on paper on the table) but I'm still slightly drunk, and haven't an appetite for anything other than asking Fusel what exactly he meant last night when he said that thing.

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