Susan's experience - part 1

Susan sank back into the plush couches and felt them swell up around her. When she fitted her chin into it, steam from the mug cupped in her hands seemed to catch on her cheeks nose and forehead. It was a pleasant and warm relief from the stiff harsh cold of the distilled air inside the lounge-room, its relentless freeze-over as callous, objectively scientific, arthritic, as - to Susan - a morgue. Stifling any chance of planning or any kind of meaningful activity. Utterly dead, sucking noise and light from the room. Even masturbation was out of the question.

With Jeffrey and Kyle out at the clubs tonight, and Mildred practically dead in the bath, senseless metal tunes grinding her into a somnambulent stupor, Susan was at a loss for either finding or developing her own erstwhile diversion to pass the time with.

Pictionary? Box eaten into cardboard tatters; no one to play with.
Television? Don't have one, flickshit. It was true. There was nothing left in the corner of the room where it used to sit, besides the short stack of bricks it used to sit on. Still, she wasn't regretting those text-books, the ones she had bought with the television money, cash-converters coming to the rip-rip-rip-off rescue.

Susan sighed quietly and nestled deeper into the couch, cold near to unbearable. It seemed to originate deep from within the floorboards, rising up steadily, and culminating in the icicling of a bogey, which now dangled from the tip of Susan's numb honker.
'What to do, what to do with this...' the rest of the sentence popping into her head like press-tuds, inauspicious: '...what to do with this cold misery?'
But then the striking of the clock clashes around the room, and Susan looks to, aghast, wondering when it was that any of them had actually bought a clock....


To be continued......