Thumbing the fag, slow burning between his fingers, he watches the ashes fall into the small empire he has created along the window sill. Soon enough a breeze will snake its way through and destroy his creation. Life is fleeting like that, but he pays it no mind, flicking his gaze the line between sun and shadow creep down the cobblestones lane below.
His chin rests in the palm of his other hand, fingertips playing in the curls of a week of beard absently. He likes the texture and the sensation of touch on his face. The little finger slips along his lip where his tongue pokes out to meet it, the tip tracing the hard edge of the nail. While he is cognizant of these things happening, if you asked him later he would not remember.
The opposing side of the street is now brilliant, blinding in the sunlight. Pink flowers drape among their emerald vines round a window box directly across from him, mouthing arias to their life giver. Through the glass behind them, the room is empty and he feels more at home there than the beauty that adorns them.
Bringing the tapered fag to his lips, he draws the warmth into him. Holding it, he lets it swirl within his inmost parts then releases it to dance as it slowly rises, disappearing. Bird's dark forms cut through the light, vanishing, those that cast them never seen, somewhere above the roof line.
The soft putter and whine of a scooter turns his eyes south, passed the flags and coloured awnings of back street shops, seldom visited by anyone that was not local or had a particular need. He waits, listening to the sound grow, rewarded as a lone rider rounds the corner on a blue grey scooter. He follows their progress with his gaze until they draw to a stop by three stairs leading to a wooden door just down from his.
His body whispers in his ear the desire to be warm, his hand responds pushing the fag into his mouth, inhaling, releasing, but he barely notices, keeping his eyes on the dismounting rider. Blue jeans, snug at the hips, hugging legs to the knees then flaring around well scuffed black boots. She peals the leather coat from her form, revealing a white shirt, bronze skin contrast around the low neck line.
He inhales as she removes her helmet, loosing the hair within to drape tenderly around her neck. Her back remains to him as she mounts the steps, lock rattling as she deftly inserts the key, twisting then releasing. She disappears within, closing the door. His fingers tremor as he takes one last pull on the nub between them, then tamps it against the wood sill.
Never seeing her face, he dreams her in the evenings. Each night it changes, leaving him unsatisfied and hungry on waking. Where does she go at night that she returns so early? Does that soft spot behind her ear smell of last nights musk? Do her lips pout as she chews whatever she eats at lunch? Does she know he watches each morning? Does she smile at the game of enticing him?
Chair legs stutter against the floor as he turns to the desk. Retrieving a forgotten porcelain cup, bitter cold coffee floods his mouth. He winces, placing it once more by the side of his computer. Both hands now push into his face, then back along his forehead into the nest of unkempt hair, the pent angst expelling from his mouth in a haggard breath.
Mountains of paper lay siege to any open space on the desk around the computer. He breathes, a heartbeat. On the wall hangs a picture of a family he once knew. He breathes, a heartbeat. A plate, congealing remnants of last nights reheated spaghetti clinging to its edges, hangs precariously balanced at a paper cliff's edge, perfuming the stale air with its garlic aftertaste. He breathes, a heartbeat.
Feverishly his eyes widen, fingers strike keys and a thin smile slowly creases his face, as he ejaculates, across the screen, the story of the life he wished to live if he had not married his words. Tack-tack-tack-tacktacktacktacktacktack...
this is a magpie tale.
it's been a while since i posted a longer piece of fiction. hope you enjoyed. have a great weekend everyone. ~Brian