Sunday. He woke up in front of what he had painted last night (a face with gaunt eyes, sullen cheeks) and to the image of his girlfriend passed out in front of the rolling-mirror. Monday. They spent the entire morning fucking and blowing lines while they bathed each other. He gathered all the whiskey bottles into a X-shape on the floor and began circling it, muttering something about death and how he only wanted her to look at him with horror, not longing. Tuesday. They bought a rug at the Flohmarkt in Mauerpark, took it home and christened it with their fluids. The color of night shuddering beneath the clouds.
Wednesday. He tried to paint as she was crying in the corner. At midnight he went out naked onto the balcony with the whiskey bottles one by one, tossing them into the deserted street. From six stories up, the explosions sounded like hissing in his ears. He mixed some mollys into a rum and coke. Walked down Kottbusserstraße to the Kanal and sat by the river which flowed like ash from the mouth of a demon crouched beneath the bridge. Thursday. They bought a big breakfast that neither of them ate and afterwards got lost in a brooding crowd. He passed out as they were chanting and she found him in a bench and told him that she needed more. C’mon, she said. We can only kill it by doing more. Waiting on the corner for a whistle from a doorway. Friday. After he finished the painting, he bit into it, shredding it down the middle, poured whiskey on it, then took it out to the balcony and set it on fire. She sang something in Danish and lit a smoke in the flames, cross-legged and cursing Berlin. Saturday. He woke up, put on his robe and paced around the streets, smiling more than he had in months.
By Tyler Williams
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