beginnings

Squinting against the sun, he flicks the cigarette into the dead air then brings it back up to his mouth and inhales.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

It’s routine, perfectly calculated seconds between each breath in and out. He can practically hear the seconds tick by in his head which would resonate perfectly with his watch. Well, if he still wore a watch anyway. He hasn’t worn one since… well, in a number of years. Thank goodness for cell phones, he’d say with an abashed grin when arriving late and would quickly change the conversation.

He hates talking about himself.

In fact, he reckons he would be the perfect boyfriend if it weren’t for the fact that he’s so ‘disaffected’ as the doctor likes to put it. He himself would rather not label it as such, ‘disaffected’ sounds so much like disinfectant and that always reminds him of coldness, sterility and hospitals among other things. Then again, he despises labeling people and can always hear his mother’s voice in his head as the root as to why: “Labels are for jars and clothing, not human beings.”