Thursday morning, twenty to four....
In only an instant his thoughts are back to sounds, sounds of feet, of feet walking towards the houses, towards Peter, somewhere out on the street.
Nervous, Bug Eyed Peter twists the silver metal bracelet of a scratched watch around his wrist and registers the time while taking a last pull from the shortening stub of one of the day’s cigarettes, as is his habit. Brushing his fingers from his temples back to massage his stiff neck, as he was want to do, Peter blows the used air and stale smoke from his last inhalation out in a half whistled rush. Slowly, studiously, he withdraws another cigarette from a slightly buckled white packet. It has no filter. Placing the Navy Cut between dry, chapped lips he lights it, shrugs, or more accurately, rearranges himself in the dying warmth of his leather overcoat, takes another drag from his cigarette and notices the time without remembering what it was. A moment later he drops the butt to the ground, sparks jump, fly briefly and drown and he deftly guides the half smoked cigarette into a nearby pool of muddy water. His right foot feels damp, his thick winter sock and the pumping action of foot in shoe has drawn wetness through the cracked leather sole. “The ninth of the morning. Counted and filed away!” He mutters to himself, into thin air, “Damned damp toes.... Cold wet, numb fingers.... Cracked, painful lips....”
Raindrops ripple the puddles.
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