The only light comes from a streetlamp at the intersection of two walkways, where a lone figure stands. The man appears to be waiting for something.
He is alone and he stares at the pavement, as though he is hoping that something will reveal itself to him in the cold, hard ground. He stares for a long while.
Nothing changes.
The footpath remains a footpath.
It is just a slab of concrete.
The night is still; there is no wind. The sweet smell of tobacco fills the air as, cigarette after cigarette, he smokes until he feels the tar begin to coat his lungs and a cancer begin to develop. The smoke trails its way up, encircling his head, resembling a halo. The man, dressed in black denim trousers and warmed by a form-fitting black leather jacket and matching gloves, is anything but angelic.
It is cold. The temperature has caused the rodents to retreat to hibernation – eliminating the sounds of scampering paws – and the bugs have disappeared, as they do at the beginning of every winter. There is only the man – the man and the sound of his taking another drag from his cigarette.
A thick blanket of clouds floats between the people of earth and the stars, shielding the universe from view. It is this kind of night that makes the man feel as though he is the only one left in the world – as though everyone else is no more than a faded memory. For the first time in his life, he feels truly at peace with that around him.
The etched lines under his eyes indicate that he has endured much in his short life. He looks older than he is. Old and tired, as though he has not slept for a number of days. The stubble on his chin has begun to form a beard. The course dark hair is ungroomed. The man, however, appears indifferent towards this matter. He appears indifferent towards everything.
Right now, there is nothing more to life than this – a man and his cigarette.
A snowflake falls. The man remains indifferent.
