The Number Habit

N i n e

I strolled down the pavement absorbing the beauty of the death infected wind; an abundance of warm hues rippling whenever I trudged in areas that were leaf flooded. At a leisurely pace, I grazed my hands upon half-rotting lichen contaminated oak fences. I tilted my head back appreciating the lavender tinted sky and how it brought out and contrasted with the blood-tipped leaves. Dewy day drops glazing the parallel veins who sit on concrete slabs. Falling on moist sappy soil they pooled together like magnets, straw-like roots sucking out the moisture.

I slid my phone out of my back pocket, typing my passcode incorrectly I rolled my eyes and tried again. Finally getting into the home screen I clicked onto the music icon and went to the 'Favourite songs' playlist. I pressed the shuffle button and heard the synthesised violin creaking out the tune of 'Pop Goes The Weasel'; about fourteen seconds in, a cello played the tonic note of the song with vibrato while the bass clef of the piano played a low pulsing rhythm as the right hand played high-pitched arpeggios. I sighed contently, this was an excellent example of practical procrastination.

I was skipping class again, the teachers were aware of my piers detestation towards me but did nothing to assist my problems. Turning a blind eye towards my dilemma, they did not notice my absence anyway. It was not like I participated in the class conversations anyway.