post-atomic

Last night, Jules announced that we should leave Amsterdam with a bang. “We need to get on the tear it up trail,” she declared. We were in a secret café called Luckymothers. I slumped in the seat like a rag doll. It was eight o’clock and I’d already taken my entire ration of drugs for the evening. Jules squeezed open the top of the stiff, lime green German envelope and saw that all of the pills were gone.

“You’ll have to learn how to save, my darling,” she scolded gently, as she tapped the envelope and sprinkled the remaining pill dust into her koffie verkeerd.

“The world’s cookie jar doesn’t have a bottomless pit.”

“Fuck the world,” I said, slobbering on my new nylon jacket.