Miles Davis Blowing Miles Davis

No matter how diligent, no matter how many double checks and triple checks, the sun always manages to find a crack in the curtains, smacking me awake just before I’m ready to get up.

My arms are numb. How did I manage to sleep on both my arms, is the first thought of a bad day.

I grumble my way into the kitchen, admire some dirty dishes, make some coffee. I’ve given up on tea.

The coffee maker is gone. It means M and N are already awake. I shuffle into the other room, lighting a cigarette. They look as good as I feel.

“I thought you said whisky doesn’t give you hangovers?”

“Mhm,” I manage. I sit down. The coffee left is crumbs. It starts to rain, dark and cold. M gets up and dashes out onto the balcony. He spends a few minutes carrying plant after plant inside.

“It was sunny fifteen minutes ago!” he cries, carrying some miniature tree or another past us. We watch.

Finally the plants are safe. M sits, glaring out the window.

“How’d you sleep?” N asks.

“I woke up with both my arms asleep.”

“How did you manage to sleep on both your arms?”

I shrug.

“I had a sex dream,” M announces. He frowns out the window.

“It was weird.”

We wait. He takes a breath.

“I was blowing Miles Davis. Then, I stood up, looked in the mirror, and realized I was Miles Davis. At which point Miles Davis started blowing me.”

“Uh-huh, maybe you should take a break listening to Miles Davis,” N suggest. M looks over at his collection of records, longingly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “maybe.”

Then, he throws his arms in the air. “What the hell!”

I turn. The sun is blazing through the window. M starts carrying all his plants back out on the balcony.

“This country has lost its damn mind, sky and all,” he tells his trees.

N watches him. I light another cigarette in preparation to brush my teeth.