I woke up with the same shitty feeling. I wanted to stay in bed all day, but I had to earn a living. I got up and lit a cigarette. I looked out the window and saw the sun shining in the blue sky. It seemed like a perfect day to go to the beach, but I had to go to the office.
I dressed and left the house. I took the usual route to the bus, trying to avoid the stares of the neighbors who looked at me with disdain. I was a writer, but I didn't make enough to afford a car. I had to settle for taking the bus with other poor bastards like me.
When I finally got to the office, I already felt exhausted. I sat down at my desk and started writing. I wrote about everything, from love to death, through sex and alcohol. I wrote until my hands cramped.
Then I left the office and headed to the bar. I needed a beer, or maybe two. I walked into the bar and saw an old acquaintance at the counter. He was an alcoholic like me, but at least he made enough to afford whiskey.
We sat at the counter and started talking. We talked about everything, from politics to religion, through women and life. I talked until my voice faded.
Then I got up and left. I went back home and sat in my favorite armchair. I lit a cigarette and turned on the TV. There was a baseball game on, but I wasn't interested. I felt lonely and sad, as always.
But then something strange happened. I did not see her coming, my Black cat with her piercing Yellow eyes jumped on me and began to lick my face. She seemed happy to see me. And in that moment, I realized that I wasn't alone. I had my cat and my writing. And maybe it wasn't so bad after all.
