When the man awoke he felt mostly OK, but then he remembered that he hadn't felt OK yesterday and it seemed inconsistent not to continue with his malaise. It was Tuesday morning and his landlady had scheduled a flat inspection. He'd arranged the day off work and told his landlady that his girlfriend was working. He was reluctant to admit that she'd left him three months ago. There were various reasons for this concealment. It was a private let and the lease was in her name for one. Mere practical details, excuses. Perhaps he just wasn't ready to admit to himself that the relationship was over.
He studied his reflection in the mirror, recalling the admonishments of a school friend who'd advised him that he didn't have very good posture. The friend had even gone so far as to draw a diagram to indicate how slouched his shoulders were when he was standing stationary. He looked utterly futile, he supposed. Not the posture of a reliable tenant he was sure the landlady would duly deduce. And then there were the proliferation of empty bourbon bottles that might worry her as well. He really should have recycled those already goddamnit, what a dumbass.
It was too late to rush out to the bottle bin now; the landlady might encounter him on the stairwell and would inevitably be bemused by his harried, flustered state. No, best to hide them. But where? And what if she perchance in the course of her inspection opened a cupboard and found a neat array of empty bourbon bottles. Such an occurrence would surely worry her. But would the inspection really be so goddamn thorough? Surely not. A quick glimpse at the abode to ensure it hadn't reached a state of complete ruin, and then she'd fuck off. Maybe some small talk about the absent girlfriend. He wasn't a terribly convincing liar though, he feared.
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