The Roof; Sunday Evening.

[not-a-mused.livejournal.com]

There were two reasons why Cal was currently sitting on the roof of the building, slowly drawing in the smoke and tobacco and cancer of a menthol cigarette. The first had to do with the tiny little albino monkeys, two of which were currently still occasionally hopping up on his knees, chittering something, and tilting their heads at him before scattered off for a little longer. Not the monkeys themselves; for the most part, they hadn't actually surprised Cal too much when he woke up and saw them. When he woke up and saw them, however, they had gotten a hold of the pages he had typed up yesterday and planned to burn today. What pages weren't being wrinkled or torn or nibbled on were being carefully thrown around, like ticker tape at a parade, or, as Cal dreaded, being carted off to God knows where. So his morning and his afternoon had been spent trying to reclaim what was his from their little primate clutches and send them to the originally intended fate, hoping that whatever was slipped out of the room, pillaged away by the monkeys, was nothing too incriminating.

The second reason was the residual, remaining effects of the contents of the pages in the first place. He'd hoped that writing about it and then sleeping on it would have allowed it to fade, but it didn't. Not even after chasing monkeys. And so he gave in, went outside, and had a smoke, and then decided that the view was too nice and he was too lazy, to bother with doing anything else.


[[ damn, I'm all poetical and whatnot tonight. Either way, open roof is open! ]]