He leaned his weight against the counter, and looked out across the isles. Empty. He looked outside through the glass doors, and winced as he saw some pedestrians, people passing by. Some of them must have seen what just happened. They winced, like he did, and walked on. Of course they did.He looked down at the counter, and wiped his hand across his face. Blood from the cheek bone, blood from his lip, now all over his wrist and palm, now all over his shirt. Blood inside his pants, and trickling down his ankles, getting into his shoes. Blood in his mouth, coating his teeth and tongue, the taste of life.Funny how much life tasted like metal.He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He looked across the counter where it now showed a couple bloody hand prints. Blood hand prints, what a poetic way of showing the futility and fruitlessness of his job, his life, his predicament.A really shit script.His whole life was a really, really shit script. And every single god damn mother. I do, though I cannot for the life of me imagine why I agreed to this. The people she works with are prats. Her college friends are a bunch of catty bitches that she hates, or so her comments after each get together would have me believe.We finally get home just before midnight and she is as tight as a tick. I get her undressed and in to bed, then I get a shower, wanting to get the smoke off me and knowing I will not have time in the morning.The next day it is the same thing all over again, except I am absolutely knackered before I even start the day. The pretty blonde is at the bus stop again. This time she is sipping hot tea from a travel mug and watching the birds fly by. I can see the steam from her cup rising lazily in the still morning air.By the end of the day I am dragging and it feels like the walk back from the train station is about five kilometers instead of a couple of blocks. I get home and Lori informs that she had invited people for supper. Bollocks to that, I am not.
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