I sat on the wall at the edge of my garden, Nintendo DS in one hand and cigarette in the other. It was my third of the evening, the ritual of going outside, flicking the lighter, and breathing deep was almost as comforting as the haze of bitter nicotine. I took a drag, pressing a button to make the Pokémon on my screen move. I glanced up; there was a girl screaming and beating on my bedroom window with her fists. I exhaled the smoke, watching it curl lazily towards the night sky, and pressed another button on the console. When I looked up again, the girl was gone.
I finished my cigarette, flicked the butt into the overflowing ashtray waiting at my feet. The Nintendo disappeared into my pocket. My slippers, stolen from one of my housemates, flapped against the soles of my feet as I picked my way through the dark, across the damp grass and back into the relative warmth of the house.
The conservatory was empty. So was the kitchen when I paused to grab a cheap bottle of wine from the cupboard next to the fridge. I cursed quietly; last one. All I could hear was the washing machine, churning its captives in soapy water. The living room held signs of life; bags and shoes discarded on the floor, blankets and old clothes stretched across the ratty sofas we got for free. I flopped onto one of them, flicked the lid off the wine and took a gulp. The sharp smell, more than the taste, lingered on the back of my tongue.
