Don Draper (selfmadman) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2012-12-13 06:48:00 |
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His days and nights smear together. He doesn't remember sleeping; he can't escape the feeling that he just woke up. He tells time by the ice melting in his glass and misses Megan in pieces—her hair, her touch, 'Don' on her lips—until it seems like the city's been molded by her absence. He comes back to the postcard, its febrile sheen. The skyline like a seven-fingered hand. The corners'll start to wear if he keeps worrying the thing. He flips it over, scours his face with a hand. They gave him a miracle phone the size of a belt buckle but not a pen. He flips the card over again. Burns through a cigarette. It's getting dark and his bottle's getting light. He grabs coat and hat and turns around once, almost superstitious, before heading out. |