Tasteless. Everything becomes tasteless and chewing becomes a chore. He doesnât bother himself with what that implies, ignores situational subtext even though heâs always prided himself in being a man that knows what to look for, knows how to read between the lines, find the metaphorical hole in the wall, tear in the ceiling. You could call him cocky, confident, or simply self-aware; all interchangeable words at the end of the day. But thatâs not what matters. What matters is that heâs hunched over the toilet bowl of his one bedroom apartment, more convenient workplace than home, retching up bile and soju and too many servings of jajjangmyeon. The aftertaste lingers on the back of his pearly white teeth, sticks to the roof of his mouth even after he tries to wash it out at the sink. His eyes look hollow in the bathroom mirror and his lips are cracked, flakes of dead skin peeling away from raw flesh. Splashes his face with lukewarm water and calls it food poisoning. He grabs his phone off the night stand on his way out of his room, opens the living area windows before collapsing across the plush sofa sitting square in the middle of the room. His motherâs ringtone plays on the other end of the line. One of her favorites. No answer, so he tries the number again. The silence in the room feels deafening. His head hurts and he blames it on the alcohol, although that doesnât quite make sense. He falls asleep on the sofa after two tablets of ibuprofen with the TV humming in the background.
He wakes up, understandably rather annoyed, to the incessant ringing of his front door, scowls when the ringing gives way to heavy fists banging on polished wood. Evening sunlight filters in from the open windows and he needs to give his eyes time to adjust. The knocking gets louder and he really canât bring himself to give a damn. Smiles at the colorful array of words from the other side of the door. The lieutenant. Of course. Who fucking else. He takes a swig of water from the bottle sitting at his feet before getting up and finally reaching for the door. If heâd taken any longer it would probably be hanging open by a hinge. He greets the two men waiting outside his apartment slash convenient workplace with a sheepish grin, disarmingly boyish. Heâd always had a gift for charm. Spinned better than most experienced politicians, shame he lacked the motivation to do much with it. Â That is, if you donât consider building up the 14k wu up from the size of a basketball court to what it is now. But a life in crime is hardly what most would consider a successful career. And it was more for the money either way. He has no illusions about where his loyalties lie.
âMy bad. Must have missed the alarm.â
