Monkey wakes up.
The bright light from the sun has found its way around the curtain.
It’s Sunday, no work. Thank the Monkey Lord – She thinks.
She gets out of bed, brushes her teeth and takes a long hot shower.
She gets out of the bathroom, dripping wet; takes a look at her body in the mirror.
She has lost some weight.
She checks her cell phone. No messages.
It’s been almost two weeks.
She gets dressed: Jeans, an old t-shit, socks, tennis shoes, no makeup; the usual (the new usual).
She decides to go out for breakfast;
buy herself one of those fancy four-dollar coffees, maybe, even a muffin.
She imagines herself alone in the coffee-shop; feels a pain on her chest. Not a heart attack, don’t worry, it’s just so-called-love gone really wrong.
You are OK, Monkey, he was a douche – She tells herself.
She decides to go ahead with the plan. It’s just breakfast; coffee and, probably, a muffin, or a brownie.
She searches her room for a book; a book is ideal for not looking lonely.
After Dark by Haruki Murakami. Perfect.
Come Murakami, let’s roll.