George realised, as he walked inside his flat, that resistance was futile. He was not going to go to the gym. Third day in a row. Almost automatically George looked down. Stomach: still flat. At least another week worth of laziness before it would show. George also realised that he had left all the lights on in the kitchen for at least two days. George liked to think of himself as a positive person, so decided to carry on forgiving his own weaknesses. It was only when he realised that his fridge was empty, that George had a moment, albeit just a moment, of disappointment. For he didn't want to go out again. In a way, George thought, the two actions cancelled themselves out. No gym, no food, no fat. He opened a beer, undid his tie, lit a cigarette and sat on his sofa for a couple of hours of mindless television entertainment.
And yet, there was something nagging him. Like an itch at the back of his brain. George could not figure out when and how it started. Never mind, George thought, if nicotine doesn't bring back the memory, nothing will.
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