Waning

It's the reek of chopped onions. The sound of early evening traffic, the last of peak hour on Main road, Rosebank, seeping in through the open, barred, windows.

They're closing down the flat for a quarter of a year; their last exams were written today. They leave for Kzn at 2am.  The flat is to be mothballed. They're back in February, for the new academic year. 

Overheard from the kitchenette:
'Do you want some wine gorgeus?'
'I'm good.'
'Cold drink?
'Thanks!'

He pours a blue and silver foil-fresh packet of salt and vinegar Simba crisps, made in Africa, into a large white tupperware bowl, made in China. Nice, my addiction sorted!

I pour - glunk glunk - a cheap but practical thick-glass wineglass full of burgundy (I instinctively knew it was colour as I drunkenly peered at it).

I bought the bottle, after a little thought I admit, at a threadbare Checkers on the way here; the pedometer app on my phone informs me that I took 8792 steps between home and here. By needing my space I burnt 302 calories.

I love walking. Especially when I'm ratty, like today, and pissed off. Piss off Lee, you're getting on my tits.

Odd Bins number 921.
Cabernet Sauvignon Shiraz 2012.
'Wild berries and liquorice, with hints of pepper on a lingering finish.'
From the Swartland.

Now I'm well drunk. But I'm ecstatic that it's summer and that the country will be shutting down for the summer holidays in two to three weeks.

I will work home later, after supper.

Have a safe journey guys.

The moon is waning.