Colder

Sip

Phillipan was sitting at home, drinking. It was, what? 12? 1? Sometime in the the afternoon. He keep thinking about Frost. Life was better when the 3 of them were together. Fuck, why did he get rid of Semore? And Frost leaving was basically Phillipan's fault. Well, he didn't know why is was his fault, but he just knew it was. Phillipan stood up. The table needed to be cleaned. The cans were starting to fall off the edge. Phillipan sat back down. He'd do it later. He turned on the T.V, the news was on. "Scandinavian Prince of the Southern Isles visits America for One week.". Phillipan sat up."Prince Scenia will be leaving this Friday, could this be a start of peace between North America and Scandinavia?". Like Phillipan gave 2 shits about peace. He need to be on that plane. He needed to talk to Frost. He looked at the bottle in his hand, giving a frown and throwing into the wall. He pulled up his laptop. Phillipan went to look up everything a pilot needs to do before take-off. Thank god for the Interwebs. Phillipan cleared his history and got to it. He knew all the phrases, wrote then down on his hand, studied them. On to flight procedures. He now knew the ins and outs of this flight, especially the co-pilot who would be tranquilized the night before. Thank God Phillipan had a photographic memory, which, really, was the reason he started drinking. He would remember faces of people he missed. When he was wasted, he was a blank slate. Anyways, he had memorized shit, wrote down shit, and thought about shit. A days work completed. Wait. If he drank, he would forget everything. GODDAMNIT! 3 days without drinking. To be exact, 3 days, 19 hours, 7 minutes, 18 seconds until the flight and he could drink. 19 seconds. 20 seconds. 21 secon- Ok fuck this. Phillipan got up and walked out of the apartment. He was going to the store to buy some magazines and chips. Salt and Pepper chips, because he's not racist. Ah, good old 7/11. Where teenagers work purely for beer money and not get judged. He stepped in. For a 10 minute walk, it was worth it. It smelled like bleach, AKA the best smell ever. Phillipan got his supplies, went to the counter. Christ, he thought only teens worked here. She was his age, maybe a year younger. She was a light skinned black woman, long curled hair and green eyes. And damn did dat hoe got some curves. Phillipan was going to use a pick up line like "Did you fall from heaven, cause we should have sex.", but she was different. He looked at her name tag. Rochelle.

"A-hem." She coughed. Dat sexy voice doe.

Phillipan looked her in the face. She was doing the "are you kidding me?" look. Oh fuck, did she think he was staring at her chest? Shit!

"Oh no, I was, looking, um, name-tag." Smooth as a motherfucker. She laughed quietly.

"Hey, is your name Thedore?" She asked.

"Uh, ya."

"Are you this Thedore?" She asked, holding a newspaper she got from under the counter and pointing to a picture of a man laying face down in a gutter with a caption "Police believed man dead, actually so drunk almost in coma". When the fuck did that happen. Fuckin drunken stupers.

"Nope, that's not me."

"Oh, ok." She went back to scanning stuff.

"So.... How long have you been working here." Phillipan questioned, making conversation.

"Ever since life went down hill." She sighed.

"Oh, bae, go on." Phillipan said, leaning in.

"Oh, you know. Boyfriend broke up with me. Back to living with the parents. Working here."

"Hey, can I have your number?"

Rochelle smiled and rolled her eyes.

"Here, its yours."

She wrote the digits down on a piece of paper.

Score.