When Steven looked in the mirror he did not like what he saw. An old, balding, fat man with sad eyes looked back at him, struggling to maintain eye contact, guiltily shuffling his pale feet, wiry black hair creeping out from the elastic rim of his socks. How the fuck did it come to this?
Steven ran a hand through his fading hair. The cut on the back of his index finger was pink where he’d scratched yesterday’s scab before it was ready; no blood but sore to touch. The juice from the lemon he had sliced earlier had burned like acid and he’d struggled to keep in a grimace in front of the guests.
Tiny creases criss-crossed across his shirt on his stomach forming a combover for his belly, a middle aged Unknown Pleasures t-shirt. The waistband of his underpants had rolled down to his hips from where he had been sitting down, folded down by the folds of his fat stomach, thankfully tucked below his felt trousers.
His drink was on the edge of the bathtub, sweating cold drops down the grooves of the glass onto the porcelain surface. Beads of perspiration dribbled down his forehead, slipping across his brow like a cattlegrid, the second line was racing to catch up with him. He inhaled through his nostrils and smelled the alpine scent of toilet bleach over the crystals of cocaine in his nose hair.
A knock at the door. A giggle. A man’s voice. A thud into the wall.
The couple looking for a room to have sex in moved on after trying the door handle and Steven splashed cold water onto his face. A drop stuck to his left eyebrow. He looked at his watch. Five minutes left of 2017.