Daughter

It’s Sunday in a 3-room flat. You’re bleary-eyed, and dead beat from last night’s tequilas and Coronas. You didn’t know how many then, and you don’t know now. A shower seems like a good idea, but this is one idea whose time has not come. Yet. Coffee. Followed by more coffee. You look out onto the wet market many storeys below. Ant people are buying fish and chicken after drawing money from a toy ATM flagging taxis that fit into your hand. You lurch across, staring at people staring into your flat through the open door, when this song comes on.