The Couch

Here, the night is restless.

Resonance irritates the man who lay on the red leather couch. Body weary and scarred from the day's labors. Voices are heard, revealed only by a break in the window. There’s a smell of the pillow equivalent to a seasoned sock. Oddly enough, as it seems, the alley behind the crack sounds like the most occupied in town.

Late winds nudge the curtain.

The handless fools vainly march past the window, conversation ringing in the man’s ears. A racket at the door summons rage. The knock always had a peculiar conclusion due to the fact that every outcome was aggravating. These knocks occur frequently and only result in a body ache that cramped the nerves.

Sometimes they come in, other times not.

The alley was perfect for the clowns to squat and further arouse anger with the shuffling of feet and dirty mouths spewing pure obsessive nonsense. This was almost a guarantee if they were told to fuck off.

Here, they linger and the night grows cold.

A heavy draft breathes against the curtain, breaking thought with a frigid grope; Silent shivers divide the cosmos as noise negotiates madness.

Feet heavy with confused intent spill into the room casting a midnight obscurity. Bleak eyes grip the restless man and an unyielding stare is met. The bellowing chill sinks as the shadow slithers by, finding comfort on an adjacent seat.

A hand claws the peripherals of the unseen, grabbing a pack of cigarettes on the table. Keys shifting when the pack is clumsily returned. Several attempts later, the shadow exhales and fog penetrates the man who breathes in the smoky frost.

A groan follows the exhale and another quick drag. Subtle light illuminates a deep expression as it buzzes along in the dark leading more cancerous breath.

The scent of misery is bittersweet for the man.

The phantom grumbles and a thousand granules of sand and ash slide with its foot, crawling through every orifice of the man. With a blink of an eye, the man throws himself up to sit and stare into the darkness of his own shadow.

A cigarette cold and idle sits in the groove of an ashtray, and the wind blows again on his back.

He grabs the partially consumed cigarette while his eyes strain to see in the dark. Sparks fly and a flame is set, casting a glimmer of light revealing the bitter solitude and a puff of smoke spiraling into the void.

Here, the man sits alone on the red leather couch. His mind restless and lungs burning in the cool night.