JB is slouched in his seat, more so than usual as he’s made the back cushion a pillow as of late, so that when you rest into it your spine is curled against the wooden frame of the single seater couch. A snug appearance would fool the average sitter, to which apparently I’ve been categorized.
His eyes are closed, but his toes are wiggling, propped up on the table before me. If it weren’t for him rapping lyrics in French I’d expect his movements to be a not-so-classic case of sleep dancing. He has a glass of red wine made the next town over in his right hand, spliff weaseled between his thumb and middle finger, elevated mindlessly in the air and pirouetting on his fingertips to music that has even me bobble headed in the adjacent loveseat.
He laughs intermittently and mumbles under his breath when anything audibly prompts his swift movement – another of the all-to-frequent ads, a knock on the door from Ethan asking to borrow a lighter, an incoming call from the neighbor complaining the music is rumbling her stone walls.
His apartment didn’t come equipped with much, but it did come with the most intricately wired Marshall stacked reminiscent surround sound system which turns on as early as coffee brews and stays on until the night runs dry.
I’ve heard the chorus enough to parody the lyrics without comprehension and would normally ask for a loose interpretation, but have a feeling at this point I’d be met with an explanation manifested from plugged ears.