Walking.
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He swung out the door and heard the cat scamper out behind him.
Couldn't hack-off five minutes later outside right?
The sky was clouding up a bit and some nice new air was moving in as he walked downtown. He passed a smoky bar where there was much laughter and the Giants game. Another beauty shop was closing up and the woman inside was very hot.
Shit.
"She'd never go for me" he thought aloud, looking down. But he didn't care that much. HeI stopped at the Asian market and bought a pack of cigarettes.
He did not smoke.
On the way out he grabbed some matches.
He broke open the pack and smelled the fresh tobbaco. He loved that smell..like the newness of a woman and her pheremones all around him. Then the first hit off the lighted match. Perfect.
Then everything turns to shit. Darkness in your lungs, cancer cells activated, bad breath and, well, poison, pure and simple.
It seemed a fitting metaphor, though he could clearly identify the times he had been the cancer cell, the substance, and the match.
he kept walking and kept smoking.
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Dead Man Walking...
4 comments:
deep! i like it.....dead man walking....how a per paux...or however u spell that.
don't say metaphor when you use one. other than that I'm likin' it
i can identify the times i've been the cancer, the smoke, and the match too . . .
and i love the smell of my husband's tobacco pipe. but i hate that he smokes it.
Tabs-ha! yeah...but you love the smell and you love the man. Sweet.
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