GB lay slumped on the cream sofa, wondering whether he was depressed or merely hungry; He noticed that a gust of wind had blown the post-it from the side of the fridge to somewhere between the edge of the faded Persian carpet and the corner of the rosewood armchair. It was the post-it from last week, on which is he'd scribbled Stanley's new handphone number. GB had first pasted this to the back of his Samsung phone, and then transferred it to his Prada wallet, stuck it to the back of a notebook before he remembered to stick it on the fridge to remind him to call Stanley about the new yoga classes.
Only, of course, the post-it had lost its stickiness by now and had started to curl. It now lay there in a slightly accusatory manner, but GB didn't pick it up.
'Later,' he thought, eyeing the post-it, 'I'll call Stanley later. Maybe tomorrow, when it's less hot.'
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