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[b]Keandre’s Apartment - Los Angeles.[/b][hr]

[i]Dizzy. 
The stumbling steps that bruised his knees and bumped his elbows. He was [b]dizzy[/b] and his head was aching steadily.[/i] Nights were long and often full of senseless alcohol consumption, [i]last night[/i] had been long and full of senseless alcohol consumption. He didn't remember what had happened, not really anyway. It was a dazed blur of fumbling hands and gasping laughter. He couldn't remember what he'd been fumbling for, he couldn't remember what was so funny.

Someone had come home with him, he [i]did[/i] remember that through the haze. Fumbling hands and punch-drunk laughter wasn't lost on him, he remembered the taste of their mouth. They'd been drinking vodka, it burned on the back of his tongue. They weren't here now, he could see the sheets were mused on their end, [i]cold.[/i] They'd left during the night, he didn't remember it happening. 

He rolled to his feet, stumbled, pitched forward and caught himself on the wall. “[color=a0410d][i]Fuck.[/i][/color]” He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his blind eye. “[color=a0410d]Fuck me. Pourquoi est-ce que je me fais ça?[/color]”

-

[b]Los Angeles - Café Belle Vie.[/b]

He had taken a seat near the window that faced the street, keeping his good eye focused on the world outside. The weather was nice and his coffee was warm, steam trailed upwards from the mug in thin curls. He rapped the cup with his index finger, listening to the clink of his nail against the porcelain. It was a plain white thing, nothing particularly exciting about it. 

The liquid in the cup was a diluted brown, swirling with lighter undertones. He could rarely stomach coffee if it was black, he liked to double down on creamer. Strangely, he didn't really feel like drinking it at all today but schedule dictated that he'd have to sooner or later. Schedule ruled his mornings, dismay ruled his nights.

He picked up the cup, deeply inhaled the steam wafting off of it. He set the cup back down, he tapped it again. He listened to the soft and insistent [i]clink, clink, clink[/i] and tried to occupy his mind with the tinny voices drifting through his ear bud.

It may have looked merely as if he was listening to music to an outsider, a single ear bud in his right ear and his phone lying on the table. As it turned out, he was tuned into more than a few different radio frequencies. He'd idly change them every so often, listening for something interesting. So far, he hadn't had much luck save for a bit of talk about a bank robbery. [i]Boring.[/i]

A shooting outside a hotel. Not too long ago.
[i]Too far,[/i] he lamented to himself, [i][b]why[/b] would I ever bother going that far to look at a bloody mess?[/i]
He kept tapping his index finger, he kept listening. He finally sipped his coffee. It tasted syrupy and disgusting. He considered ditching it for a moment. He didn't. He remained in his seat, he kept sipping his syrupy coffee. The tinny sound of the radio channels continued in his ear. He was hopelessly, helplessly, irrevocably [i]bored[/i].

He kept his good eye on the window, he kept listening. Something worth pursuing was bound to show up. [i]Probably.[/i][/center]