Four Walls Deep

Four fairly ordinary days in and I was starting to feel overly cautious — at least in regards to where foot meets "it". Five, and I was more or less branded (deed alive) by my auctions, as if I spoke them louder than these things. By the sixth, I was ready to pack the tent and return to Civil, the wife, something (or one) I did on the seventh. But re-integrating was not going to be as easy as that, especially since I was perhaps not as keen on re-integration as I should have been (but no personality or looks — what can you do?). Thus I was rutted therein, with neither the cash nor the will to lift my spirits.

As usual, I turned to the streets. A bottled dame, in particular. Her most arresting features were bruises. Still, she at least had the three points of interest, and I thought it only fair to put what would most likely be the only scrap of food on her table that wasn't fished from a rubbish bin, even if the reciprocation provided only temporary relief. Altruism is my vice, I suppose. And so, with skin disposed and knotted, and sin unwitnessed, I returned, half-satisfied, to the picket fences, wherein I smiled (with internal disdain) at the lawners and ghastly children, even occasionally stooping to a wave, and slipped peacefully into my abode.

Civil had her apron on, as per, and a tray lay across her mitted palms. I plucked a misshapen biscuit and promptly reduced it to wet crumbs in my mouth — someone seems to have accidentally mistaken baking soda for flour. The dear girl.