In the early morning, the man went into his kitchen and took a beer from the fridge. The light was gray and slanted, which was his favorite. He stood and drank the beer quickly, staring into the the sink, watching the water from the leaky faucet trickle down the drain. It was a metaphor, he decided, and almost smiled. His belly was warming. Later on, with the day in full bloom, he would retreat to his room and close the door and draw the curtains and turn the tv on, closing everything off. He would be a little drunk then. The man was free to drink beer in the early morning when the light was gray and slanted, his favorite, because his son had grown and gone, and his wife had come to her senses and left. He had a little money and few needs and nothing but time. Sometimes the man ate, when he remembered or when there was pain. He would eat bread with butter or olive oil. He would boil pasta and suck it down plain with no tomato sauce because he never remembered to buy tomato sauce. He never remembered to buy apples either, which is why he didn’t eat them. Often he would vomit and there would be blood. It won’t be long now, the man thought at such times. His phone never rang because he had thrown his phone away.
Posted on: Sat, 03 Aug 2013 21:09:05 +0000
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