A cigarette hangs loosely from his stained fingertips. It drops ash lazily onto the linoleum floor of the kitchen, each cracked and crooked grey cylinder collapsing into tiny heaps of soot at his feet like penitent worshipers. His head is cocked in a position that suggests concentration, eyes closed, lips moving silently to some internal script. There is a sink to his left, just beyond his chair and the card table at which he sits. Inside the sink is an empty jar of jalepeños and a piece of steel wool, studded with various food debris. A single hot plate rests on the counter, the heating element corroded with rust, the electrical cord patched in so many places with black tape it's impossible to discern the original plastic. The floor near the doorway is a much lighter shade than the rest, betraying the loss of the refrigerator along with the water stains reaching beige fingers several inches up the floorboards.
A drip starts in the faucet. It begins slowly, but gradually increases it's tempo until the man's pulse is beating in synchrony. His lips stop moving, his eyelids fluttering slightly. For the first time in months, perhaps ever, he is at peace. The world makes sense, he will get up, look at want ads, meet a girl. The drip increases to a trickle, a stream. The cigarette cherry reaches his finger, startling the man, who drops it violently onto the fake leather-grain covering of the table. The water is too loud, the lights too bright. The man leans forward in his chair, teeters for a second, then slips almost casually to the floor. His legs curl instinctively toward his chest, his arms embracing the cheap denim covering his knees. If his eyes were open, he would have seen the last remnants of a small pile of ash, caught by the ragged exhale of air from his nostrils, swirl and dance across the linoleum like a sad ballerina.
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