True Story

The room was well lit, the fluorescent bulb overhead illuminating the shadows cast by the fire with a glaring white light. A sweatshirt was discarded carelessly in a heap near piles of clumsily fastened luggage. One had his hands clasped at the thumbs, fingers waving like wings as he laid on the sofa. On the floor, another strummed a guitar randomly while the third pleaded with her from the armchair to stop the relentless twanging. Figures made of brightly-coloured pipe-cleaners were laid out carefully; some illustrating varied levels depravity, others perched in the tops of bottles. Bottles. They were everywhere. If there were five, there were … Well, there were five. All emptied and on their sides, pipe-cleaner people trapped in their mouths. A nudge from she in the armchair sent one rolling slowly, the yellow figure spinning helplessly inside until it collided with a rucksack in which a red pipe-cleaner person waved enthusiastically from the top zipper. Golden and sparkling, crumpled peanut-butter cup wrappers littered the beige carpet, meant for bottles they never made it into. Children’s bracelets, the glittery rubber kind that smell of burnt plastic and fast food, lay intertwined and knotted in strange designs; almost celtic, but … not.

“What are you doing?” guitar-player inquired.

“Flying my bird,” answered couch-dweller.

“Tee-hee,” giggled armchair-lush.

“Tee-hee, indeed.”

“Indeed.”