I am stood staring at the fridge.
Okay. I am not stood staring at the fridge. I am stood staring at the contents of the fridge. Because I have the fridge door open.
What am I doing staring at a fridge. I cannot believe I am just standing here staring at the contents of the fridge.
[editor’s note I wasn’t thinking this it is all just a retrospective I didn’t think any of this at the time, I just imagine that I wouldn’t have believed it of me if I was thinking that about me at the time (yes I am also the editor as there is no one else here to edit this right now)]
I don’t even know why I opened the fridge. Why the fuck am I in the kitchen? What am I doing I was going to go and do a thing, write something or maybe do something, or, i don’t know find a bison to fellate, something…
Then I am interrupted.
Somebody came in and spoke to me and I realised I was holding the fridge door open.
I look up and see the drink I already poured and the bottle I just returned to the fridge.
I was thinking about a conversation. About sauces. About fridge or cupboard. A way I was different to them.
Grief hits every target.
