The sun is still up, but I’m already drunk. At the table next to mine, in the darkest corner of the hall, the pregnant woman is smiling at a giant with brown hair. He sets a glass of Black Russian below her breast, and she, with a mocking smile, adds a drop of milk to it. A White Russian with breast milk, you lucky bastard.

I down the last sip of my third gin and tonic… by now, the alcohol goes down without any effect. It doesn’t warm me, doesn’t calm me. The chair beneath me feels like it’s trying to swallow me. Maybe I should just let myself be consumed.