Philosopher
I walk into the room and throw my stuff unceremoniously on his bed. He doesn't even look up from the book he is reading, some dialogue on philosophy, the usual nonsense he reads. Philosophy. As if real people like me, who have real jobs, can just afford to sit around reading poetic discourses written by some two thousand year old Greek. "You're back," he mutters. I don't bother replying. I walk to the fridge instead. I dig past behind the bottles of beer and find a pastry. There are eggs, I could cook them for dinner, I process mentally as I stuff the pastry into my face. I turn around to look for my laptop. There's no point in wasting time. Might as well get to work. "Why are you here?" he asks, this time looking up from his book. Because I'm stupid. Stupid. I think to myself. "Because I owe your mother a favour," I say aloud, shortly. "So you've come here, to watch me, as a favour for my mother?" he says, rolling his