Distraction

I suffered from a bloody headache; painkillers would not do the trick. I could not stand or move, could not read the Ismail Kadare novel on my desk or listen to the Spanish guitar on my iTunes. The night was closing in on me and I must save it. Alan had just walked out of a bar near my hood after watching a most boring World Cup match. 'Would you like me to bring you some grocery, orange juice? Or you want to get some air?' he asked on the phone.

On our way to the other end of the city at 4.30am, I turned off the music in his car as we were speeding along a narrow road. Alan is a more considerate driver if the passenger is the nervous type. With me--after ten years--he speeds and sings and sometimes curses and does whatever he feels like.

'The trees always look fluffy at this hour of the night,' I said.

'Haven't you done enough thinking for the day?'

'I didn't call you so you can get some sense into my head.'

'Yes you did.'

Alan lives in a house at the fringe of a quiet district, a long way away from the buzz of shopping malls, bars and restaurants downtown. Having grown up on an island he can never get used to living in a crowded area. In the morning he drives to work early to beat the crowd. We sat in two reclining chairs on his rooftop and drank green tea. I told him about my episode with T and that the chap came moping back. Alan started laughing.

'You know, sometimes you're quite demanding. Give people some time to catch up.'

'I have short attention span. And you're worse,' I said.

'I'm a little judgmental but I think longer terms. You always want the next thing.'

'I'd like to kick you now but I can't drag myself up from this chair...'

We watched wind push cloud in the sky.