Stories of the Street - Thirty three

The sun is at that angle, now.

The window opposite is open and there is a slight breeze moving it back and forth in an irregular joggle. Sunshine flashes in and out of the room like a hyperactive spotlight. It swings back and forth across the room looking for him and every few seconds it finds him and burns white light hard into the back of his eyes.

Turning, he can see that it is now about half past eleven and his stomach is beginning to grumble in some strange empathetic pattern matching the sun’s flashes.

“Fucking mornings!” he grumbles. “I hate them.”

He could have turned around and hid under the duvet but he feels that it would be better for him to get up now. After a shower he can salute the end of the morning with a beer and burger in the bar across the road while complaining to the landlord that someone in his establishment should refrain from opening windows so early in the day.

He switches on the radio and turns it up high just to annoy anyone who is still in the building.

He hasn’t noticed the letters on the floor by his front door. They are all addressed to James Maguire and today he will be William Boyd so it does not matter, anyway. Another week and he will be in a new place he’s been setting up for himself.

One more week and he may even think about adopting a different lifestyle, too. Well, perhaps he won’t go that far…