Peter Nolan awoke to an enormous bellow of steamboats outside his window. He sat up in bed, first confused as to where he was, but then the tiny one-room apartment came into focus. He groaned in exhaustion and stretched his bare arms out like a cat.
He crossed the room, past the grime-caked stove, the sofa and collection of newspapers to the window and pushed back the blinds just enough to peer out into the harbor beyond.
It was Friday, which meant that the fishermen were all hauling in their catch for the markets. It also meant that Peter’s window would remain sealed for the rest of the day, and possibly into tomorrow. God forbid the scent of fresh trout invaded his home and made it smell any worse. Peter already spent most of his time crinkling his nose in disgust at the urine-like aroma that had buried itself in his walls.
His land lord denied it, but Peter was vaguely sure the previous owner of the apartment had died there.
Peter scratched at his skin, then returned to his bed and cast the stained sheets over the mattress so that they settled relatively smoothly. Next, he raided his drawers for a clean outfit to wear. Once he had chosen something that looked remotely clean, he threw it on and admired himself in the mirror. Something bothered him though. It had bothered him ever since he had known they were there. He poked halfheartedly at the pair of ivory horns that jutted out a few inches out of his straight dark hair. Peter sighed again, placing a large newsboy hat overtop his head so that the horns were concealed by cheap fabric.
Set for the morning, Peter Nolan strolled out his apartment, hopped childishly down the stairs and out onto the cobbled streets.
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