A fine bottle of wine, just bought, and held comfortably under your arm as you head back to the shop. And though you can't taste the difference any more, each bottle is still unique, still special, dependable and predictable in their ways of encouraging an entirely bearable existence of constant intoxication. Like friends. Except drinkable.

You arrive at your desk, sit back and caress the bottle with one hand as the other scrambles for the corkscrew. Which is hiding.

"Yes, you're looking absolutely fantastic tonight, Miss...Miss Royal Rouge," you slur at the bottle with a truly awful fake French accent. The gold letters embossed on the bottle's side are almost dancing. They're swaying, anyway. Yay! They must like you. And are clearly encouraging you to drink. It's reassuring, if a little weird.

So the bottle's empty and you're drunk, but still standing. More alcohol is clearly required, but the door seems very far away. Nevertheless the bottle is calling. Actually it's singing, or maybe its mocking. Mocking because it's empty and you're still conscious. You decide to glare a little; it helps, though the bottle seems remarkably unperturbed. Maybe you should smash it? Yes. Yes, that'll show it that it shouldn't be empty when you need at least another three glasses of cheap wine to achieve catatonic bliss.

Manny hears the smash. Naturally, he assumes the shop's being burgled and so he's cowering on the stairs clutching a...a something.

"Why've you got that thing?" you ask, waving vaguely in Manny's direction.

"Protection," you think he says and his eyes are looking a bit shiftier than usual. Shifty eyes following you about. That can't be good. "Where's the burglar?" He's asking a lot of questions, and you feel there's a distinct lack of trust in this relationship.

"S'over there," you say, collapsing back into your chair and closing your eyes. "Dealt with him m'self. Fat lot of good you were. Sleeping whilst I was being attacked. And burgled. And burgered."

"Buggered?" he asks. Alarmingly loud.

"What?"

"Where is he then?"

"Ran way, didn't he?"

"Right. Are you coming to bed?"

"Can't. Can't move. Too many burglars. They're everywhere. They're in the walls. Watching us. With their wee burglary eyes." Manny has a nice bed, you think. He changes the sheets and stuff. And has pillows that smell weird, but there's nothing growing on them. It's the hair though. It gets everywhere and you can't stand it.

"Can't stand the hair," you announce.

"You really should go to bed, Bernard," he replies, and your eyes jerk open because the voice is far too near, and creeping closer. Probably. Like some great lumbering thing of the night. Bearded thing. And you shudder.

"Where are you?" you cry clawing at the darkness.

"Ow!"

"Aha! Burglars!"

"I'm not a burglar, I'm just going to help you up the stairs."

Suddenly, there's light everywhere, and you screw your eyes tightly shut, determined not to confront this monster. And then you're lying down and there's nice soft things squishing on top of you. And it isn't Manny. Cause you can here him moving, and Thing hasn't ever ventured out of your room yet. So it must be Manny. Unless it's another burglar.

"Come to bed," you slur in the least enticing voice you can manage. Cause drunken sex, not a good thing. Which is a shame cause that sort of rules out most of your life. But never mind, because right now, sleep is good and you need Manny to switch the light off.

He slips in beside you a few minutes later and you fall asleep with a smile on your face when you manage to pull all the covers to your side and he doesn't bother to complain.

And you know he'll be the one to clean up the smashed glass in the morning.