Jimi had his head in a book but he wasn’t reading. His thoughts were still back at the club, with the girl he’d met last night.
It made him late. He jumped out of bed, head still elsewhere, to get ready for the day.
The spam looked like human tongues as it crackled and spat, bubbling up at the edges, taunting him as the frying pan belched smoke though his damp kitchenette.
He’d got the gas too high. The violet flames licked the outside of the blackened frying pan as he wondered how he could get hold of her number.