Warning: Please Remove Your Heart from Your Sleeve

My brother has just come in late from work. And I don’t mean late as in gone one because he was on the close, I mean it’s nearly four in the morning. This means he probably went home with one of the girls he serves on Wednesday nights, the kind that perch there with fucking Woo-Woos, giving my brother the eye as they mash up their ice with their straws. I can hear him lingering outside my room now, making some deliberate fuss with the zip on his rucksack. He’s either trying to hear if I’m up, or trying to wake me up, purely so he can make his point that yes, he’s just scored again.

I am in fact awake. Not that it’s any of his business why, as I’m evidently not screwing anyone. Instead, I’m texting Alexa. She’s awake because she’s an art student, and most art students only sleep through the day. I’m not an art student. I work full-time in a hardware store, and I never really sleep at all.