Darkness, broken by a dim lamp, just the sound of a dripping faucet in a lonely one bed room apartment. The last ounces of cheap bourbon at the bottom of a worn rocks glass.
One final sip, a long draw on a glowing cigarette, he turned his head to stare out the window, "Harbough" he said, in barely a whisper. Eyes un blinking, his face turned to rage as he hurled the glass into the old red brick fireplace still filled with last winters ashes. Glass careening across the old wood floor, he rose from the vinyl and steel kitchen chair, tamped out the rememants of a Camel in the overflowing plastic ashtray stolen years ago from the corner bar and slumped to bed, alone and defeated.
The mess could wait till morning.
