Sunday, July 30, 2017. Daily Brit Wit.
A bathroom; a toilet.
"He's humming the melody to a Strauss piece, barely conscious of going through the motions of showering. He's so enthralled, in fact, he has to blink and squint at the shampoo and body wash bottles several times to kick start his memory if he's used them. Has has, of course, but he's preoccupied with keeping the rhythm than bathing properly.
Okay, so he's distracted; yet what musician isn't continuously swept away by nailing segments by all means necessary?
He shuts off the water and shakes the excess off his person like a hound. His fingers comb his darkened locks before sliding open the tinted glass-door and reaching for his towel. He's scrubbing the cloth over his body roughly and hurriedly when he flip-flops two stanzas. He growls in aggravation, letting loose a mild string of expletives and chucking the wet towel into the corner by the door. Nowhere close to the hamper. He plucks his dressing gown off the hook, shrugging into the maroon material, and hastily tying the sash round his waist.
He's worked himself into a nice strop and swings the loo door open with enough force to whack himself in the head if he wasn't paying attention. Still, he catches his pinky toe on the corner and stumbles into the hallway, flailing limbs and all. He'd have landed on his face if his flatmate hadn't happened to amble by; thus, the two blokes collide together and their date with gravity is hindered by the opposite wall.
'Are you drunk?' His flatmate chortles, shoving him away and standing up.
'I wish,' he grouses.
The other bloke continues laughing. 'Well, we can change that, if you're sure.' He offers his hand to heave up and claps him on the back. 'What's got you in a snit?'
'I keep mucking up this piece for the symphony,' he finally replies.
Another slap to the back and a scoff. 'Seriously? Yeah, we're definitely off to the pub.' He's shoved down the hall toward his bedroom, a silent prompt to get moving."