Inflorescence

INTOPPO

Choose waking up on a half-broken bed with a dead TV stuck on the wobbly zebra channel. Choose smashing the half-broken radio against the cracked wall in the messy kitchen.

Choose half cooked breakfasts without any flavour. Choose coffee that tastes like dishwasher water. Choose running after Max the pug, hopelessly trying to catch up with him and grab your underwear and box of fruity condoms back.

Choose downing Buckfast to forget about that ugly dog you kissed in the club last night. Choose waking up at five in the morning covered in vomit, staring out the window and regretting buying that kebab.

Choose aspirin to nurse your alcoholic headache. Choose hard drugs. Choose uppers. Choose the hard comedown. Choose a vertigo induced afternoon on the sofa watching re-runs of Eastenders.

Choose insomnia. Choose paranoia. Choose claustrophobia. Choose the cheapest fan and hottest flat you can.

Choose a half melted tub of Ben and Jerry's dripping down your skid mark encrusted boxers. Choose being yelled at for falling asleep on the job. Choose being fed up with everyone that comes your way.

Choose being an idiot when you can choose the easy money, hope, life, prosperity and most of all, your sanity when you should really just:

CHOOSE THE ROAD OUT.

That's what the poster on the billboard outside the window says.

He's only been here for a month and he's memorised every word of it off by heart. The bold, neon green letters contrast against the eye wateringly bright pink background. Below it is a number in yellow writing. It's smaller than the rest of the letters. Maybe that's why he hasn't noticed it yet.

His eyes usually zone out at the 'out' part, but for some reason, they've decided to shift on down. Maybe it's the boredom of the morning shift, or the fact that it's actually sunny today. Who knows?

In the midst of the moment, something else catches his attention; a man with a rainbow tinted, modern bowl cut, rose-tinted sunglasses, fur coat, vest top, tight, leather jeans and flip flops walks over the counter. He smiles at Alessandro and looks over the top of his shades at the menu:

"Alright mate? I'll have t' large chocolate chip surprise mocha an' I'll have uh... t' omelette supreme fer breakfast, aye."

Alessandro checks his watch. "It's ten past eleven."

"T' stuff's still out?" the man adds back. "An' I haven't seen ye about. Are ye new here?"

"I started a few weeks back—"

"—I see. Well, I know Barry well an' am a payin' loyal customer. I'll even show ye my VIP card." The man pulls out a shiny, black card with the letters VIP etched under the Intoppo font. "See? An' also, Barry knows tat I like my eggs like I like my woman. Soft an' spicy. Add extra chilli ta t' yolks please."

Alessandro sighs and raises an eyebrow. "And who are you?"

"Sad Boy. Do ye do t' mornin' shift or somethin'? I've never seen ye here an' I go here a lot."

"What time do you come here at, Sad Boy?"

"Like five. When I usually wake up."

"So, why are you up so early today?"

"I couldn't sleep an' Trish woke me up ta rant when I finally did. She was complainin' 'bout me nah tidyin' t' lounge up."

"Is she your roommate?"

"Nah, my wife."

"...Wife? You don't seem like the type to—"

"—Be married, I know—"