This water tastes of grit, but Buddy’s slugging at it, telling me it’s fit to hit. The filter light has flashed reluctantly, blinking slowly up at me, for three sick weeks – someone says the taste is pretty bleak and I am moved to agree.
We stand, open gestures in the kitchen, there’s no measure for the bitching and the small talk, there’s no meaning here.
‘A bit Mondayish, but not too blue’
‘I almost think I’m winning but we’ll only know for sure when the bloody day is through’
‘Good weekend, bab?’
‘Quiet, stayed in and watched “Star Wars” with my two lads’
‘Quiet ones are some of the best weekends I’ve had’
It sometimes makes me sick, the carousel of shit that’s seen as conversation, in this bloody kitchen.
I want to drink some water that is textured to my taste – but I poured this one already and I guess I shouldn’t let it go to waste.