hermit style

I'm writing from Warsaw. Although officially I'm a martyr to the cause of mental health who rides every week 200 km to see her doctor that doesn't seem to be helping much, a part of me still savors the time I have to kill down here. No internet, no CD player. Empty rooms. I read "Biała gorączka" aloud to myself in the light of just one bulb – the other one doesn't work since I remember. I slowly smoke cigarettes, drink coffee and tea from the same cup. In the middle of the metropolis I've become a hermit that keeps away from technology and to whom a woman pays a visit from time to time. She comes to talk till late in the night and to smoke thin cigarettes.
Last night I slept with V. and although I didn't even touch her hand I felt warm and safe. My sleep was long and blissful. All night long she slept with her face turned to me as if she knew I hate having someone's back in front of me. In the morning she poured some juice into the glass for me. And then we smoked.