pt.4 as it freezes.

It might have been two days later when he stood up from the easy chair, thirsty. Opening the fridge, he saw a can of soda sitting on the top shelf. Next to the can lay the sandwich. It lay there, crushed. His eyes fell to the cool tiles, and on the way down caught on a carton of orange juice. Grabbing it, he strode back to the living room, swinging the door shut behind him.

It was a week after that when he opened the fridge, stared in, and shut it again. He knew he was hungry, but- not for something cold. Cupboards were opened and sifted through, and expiration dates were glanced at while quick mental calculations took place. Finally his fingers closed around a familiar shape, and he pulled out a box of cereal. It did the job- but he wished he had milk.

The end of the month was nearing when his stomach led him to the kitchen and his feet stopped him short from the doorway. He stared into the darkened room and watched the microwave lights blink the time, small, green numbers that lived and died over and over again. His feet twisted and turned his body away, turning him towards the phone. Confident hands picked up the receiver and dialled his favourite pizza parlour.

Summer had died long ago. Autumn was gaining momentum and swiftly making way for winter when he waited, standing outside the doorway to the apartment. The key hesitated before the lock, thought it over, and plunged in, twisting itself and opening the way in. A palm pressed against the door and pushed it forwards, letting it swing slowly inwards. The apartment was growing darker; the fading sunlight streaming in, working in vain to fill up the room with its brightness.

Eyes stared into the dark. A right hand returned, with key, to a pocket, and exchanged house keys for car keys. A body turned and legs strode down the hall.

pt.3 up and ready.

He blinked once, twice, three times. With each open and shut his eyes took in the barely furnished room and the lonely television set. He stretched his fingers, and noticed the soft warmth of the sun on his right. His back and shoulders ached, and with the dull pain that lay in them he remembered where he was- and why he was.

Far behind him was a bedroom, completing the holy trinity by joining the kitchen and living room. Sitting on a table next to a neatly made bed, a clock radio began its mechanical screeching. Beep beep beep, it went, step forward, step forward, step forward.

He pulled himself out of the easy chair and wiped his face with both hands. Work started in half an hour. Closing both eyes, he let out a deep breath, and shuffled down the hall, through the bedroom, and into the bathroom.

Seven minutes later he was out and dressed. Striding into the kitchen, he opened the fridge. The cool air escaped its sealed prison, and drifted past his face, creating cool waves through his still-damp hair. The light was both cold and warm. On the top shelf lay the sandwich.

He stared at it jaws clenching and unclenching, his teeth feeling like they would shatter in his mouth. His left hand reached around to his back pocket and felt the familiar shape of his wallet.

He would buy lunch today.

pt.2 waiting to weep.

The drive home was uneventful. Nothing happened. At least, nothing he cared about happened.

It was a little after six when he got to the empty apartment. He stepped in, kicked his shoes into the open closet, and shut the door behind him.

He didn’t turn on any lights; the sun cast its fading glow through cool, pale grey clouds. His feet moved slowly, heavily, and took him to the small dark kitchen. Opening the fridge with his right arm he placed the crushed sandwich on the top shelf. It was still good for the next day.

Moving to the living room he slowly sat himself down into a worn easy chair. The television sat in front of him, dead; to his left the cold, dim light came in through the window. He sat there, waiting to cry.

He waited. Leaning back, he searched himself for the hurt, for the sorrow he knew lay there somewhere. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to force it out. It wasn’t like trying to pour out an empty cup- it was like trying to pour out a cup with a lid on it; a lid sealed tightly shut.

Sitting there, in the apartment growing slowly darker. He waited.

pt.1 good byes, gone bys.

She waited in line, stepping forward every five minutes, a few feet closer to gone. He watched her leave.

They had sat together at a café in the airport, squeezing out words that had to travel through a dense, awkward atmosphere. Knowing he had work the next day, he’d bought an overpriced sandwich; he’d even made a quiet joke about it. Now he clutched it in one hand, and watched her leave.

His breathing quickened, and he felt a familiar pressure behind his eyes; he would not shut them, would not risk letting the “dust in his eyes” streak tears down his face. He swore to himself, over and over and over- I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry. His right hand squeezed the sandwich, knuckles whitening.

She was two passengers away from the front of the line, and she turned around to give him, she swore, one last look. Staring back, between bodies and over heads, she saw him; saw him standing there, blank faced, something held tight in one hand. He was completely emotionless, showing nothing. She turned away. Covering her mouth with one shaking palm she pulled her bag forward with the other. There was only one more person in front of her.

fighting the sun.

The sun set at exactly eight thirty-seven pm. He had checked on the internet earlier, just like he had done for the past one year, four months, and six days. Having written this information down on his inner forearm he made to arrive exactly one hour earlier- just as he had done every day before.

His new shoes scuffed against the linoleum floor, over its scarred, worn surface. Led by his feet and routine he soon found himself standing in the middle of the gym, where at another time and date two very tall basketball players, many inches taller than him, would jump to gain possession of a large, orange ball.

Tilting his head heavenward he gazed up at the windows that opened up the wall just a few feet from the ceiling; three, wide windows with bars over the glass, cutting up the light into equal sized portions on the weathered floor. The window in the middle shone the sun’s last hour of light down onto the tips of his shoes, warming his toes and leaving the rest of his body in the shadow.

Standing there, knees locked and eyes in constant watch, he waited. The sunlight crept past the tips of his shoes and up to his ankles; crawled up his shins and onto his knees; washed over his thighs and glinted off his belt buckle; enveloped his stomach, and chest, and neck. And finally, finally inched his way up past his chin and tightly drawn lips, leapt over his pointed nose, and forced itself into his eyes.

There he stood- the last minute of sun blazing into his glaring eyes, fists clenched in insolent defiance. Knowing, knowing all too well that in a little over twenty seconds the sun would be gone, and that he would still be there standing, alone in a darkened gym.