I wake up and stretch my body while standing, not in bed, so I don't wake up Irene, who sleeps like a log and gives the impression that not even a massive earthquake could wake her. But then again, who knows, she might wake up after all, and it's better not to piss her off.
I leave the bedroom, go to the kitchen, and make myself a very dark coffee. Then, I sit in front of the computer and continue climbing that massive mountain that is writing an enormous novel where anything and everything happens. A novel that might never end. A novel that keeps me entertained every day and gives me the will to live just so I can inject another dose. Because, at the end of the day, writing is both a pleasure and an addiction, it's a drug, and an addict will keep going, even in ruin, as long as there's material to put in the syringe.
The good thing is that writing costs nothing. The bad thing is that staying alive to write does cost something, and writing doesn't pay for food, bills, or rent. Fortunately, for now, I have Irene. We're both nineteen. I dropped out of university after attending for two weeks. Irene hasn't followed in my footsteps and never will. She has no intention of becoming an artist. She's a smart girl. I wish I were too. I wish I could see this world without overthinking everything. I wish I were a cold-hearted son of a bitch, objective and ruthless, instead of the overly subjective son of a bitch that I am. That way, maybe, I could finally turn into a powerful, merciless man with an ending that, if not happy, would at least be full of earthly triumphs.
Oh, by the way, I said, "Fortunately, for now, I have Irene," because her father pays for this apartment and spoils his lovely daughter like a queen, which works out great for me because that means I get to live like a king. If there's one thing I have to thank my mostly absent father for, it's these words: "You're a lower-middle-class boy. If you stick with girls like you, you won't get shit. Always go for a girl with money. Don't be stupid, always get one with a lot of cash."
After writing, I start watching interracial porn. Not in the mood to jerk off. Just watching. Suddenly, Irene appears. The shirt she's wearing barely covers her panties. She's five foot eight. Her legs are stunning. Her hair is slightly messy. She looks gorgeous. She asks me:
"What are you doing?"
She doesn't know I'm watching porn because she's behind the screen, and I have the volume muted. I reply:
"Watching porn of Black guys fucking White girls and White guys fucking Black girls."
"Would you like me to be Black?"
"That's a trick question."
"Yeah, it is. You're a sharp guy."
"I have my moments. Want a coffee?"
"Obviously. But first, we should fuck, right?"
"You hit the nail on the head. First things first."