𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri

PART THREE

Word count; 2,444

Tomás

The dinner was a blur, blanketed by the fact that my mind was already a pit of fluid from the length of the day. It didn't help that they only served red wine at the venue, the one drink I felt in respite; glasses and glasses of it, and the effect would only settle on me an hour later, rendering a pain in my temple, a lightness at the front of my forehead and an indefinite warmth in my throat. What's more is the fact I knew it would happen, and kept drinking anyway.

Stepping out of the car, my driver watched me approach my hotel and - content I'd follow through - drove off. Except, I stopped short, thumping my pockets to source a carton, exhaling as I recognised they were empty. I examined the rotating doors in front of me, the blinding light of the hotel lobby, still active with the buzz of businessmen despite the late hour, and wondered what mattered more - my bed, or cigarettes.

I rotated, using the hotel as a sort of handrail, and followed it down the street, barely able to keep upright, the exhaustion only boosting the wine in my veins. Soon enough, I found myself in front of an off-license corner shop, the fluorescent signs blazing over the sidewalk, accentuating the ache in my head. I stepped inside.

Staggering towards the front counter, I leaned on the surface, trying to decipher the Arabic on the back wall - to no avail. Having heard the beep of the front door, an attendant emerged from a room concealed by a door of beads, only to halt in shock. I stood upright, brushing my knuckles over my brow.

"Uh," I closed my eyes briefly, trying to remember the Arabic for cigarette.

"Facundo..." The man muttered, still in the same place.

"You have..." I made a gesture towards my lips, indicating smoking.

"Yes, yes," He darted out of his trance, picking up what I assumed was tobacco from the back wall. "This?"

I nodded; usually I preferred pre-rolled, but in the moment I really couldn't care. Searching my pockets once more for my wallet, the man waved his hands at me.

"No, please," He pushed the tobacco over the counter, speaking slowly to account for his thick accent. "I have a daughter. She is a fan."

I raised a brow, pretending to be interested as I tore open the tobacco.

"Do you want tea?"

Briefly, I glanced up at him, unsure if I heard what he said correctly, too focused on rolling a burn.

"Please, I must." He said. "You can smoke, okay?"

I shrugged, placing the makeshift cigarette between my lips, and before I knew it I was following him behind the beeded door, where two girls watched a TV in the background. Expecting it to be their father, they turned, jumping up as they realised it wasn't. Lacking the instinct of sobriety, I glanced between each of them, and at last the cashier, who had disappeared momentarily to another room, asking for the preparation of tea. Noticing my idleness, he reached for something on a shelf nearby, and brought it to my lips. A lighter.

I took a seat at the table, and soon I was drinking tea with his family, taking photos, unsure why they kept acting as if I was some sort of celebrity.