Back in 5

Hours, days, years? Lifetimes, reincarnations, eternities? Five what? I ask him: back after five what? Lines of coke? Five strangers fist-fucked? Five lottery tickets - bought in the memory of the dear deceased, Lady Luck?

- or why not five bunjee jumps from city roofs, flying like a fist, diving into the city, hurtling down through its air - and the drop stops - right on the dot. Just. Paused at your face, the curve of the street, hardly as hard as a fist it looks. And then back up it bobs, down it bobs back, bob, up, down, bob - like a kid's bouncy ball; harmless, and utterly sweet.

Or five fist-fights in the lunch-time and its queues: a princess picking over the salads as if over jewels; that fool fumbling his change; the bus-tinned tourists grinning at the surface of the city, like the sardined spectators smiling from seats in a sports stadium; and don't forget to wrench that paper-reading stinker from the toilet cubicle ... and for a fifth? Perhaps, dear, darling, random reader, it could even be you.

Or perhaps, back after five pints of piss, peed from the ridge outside the roof-top window, a pure line of fluid flowing through the dirty air, then burning down below, there in the eyes of innocent passer-byes, drenching the tickets and dreams of luck, running through everyday doors, flooding through atriums and echoing corridors, and washing away all of the city's innocent, questionning, post-it notes?

Or back in the time that it takes for five paragraphs of a blog to be daydreamed up, which inexplicably and mysteriously end with a question of love?