Crevice

A large black garbage bag taped over the fireplace and every now and then it breathes. Air goes in and out, crinkled pulse turns this hearth into a mouth. I don't recognize it. I am sitting on the chaise with a book I cannot read and clothes I cannot forget. Wrapped in a robe, wearing a winter hat, the kind old men wear when they shovel their drives in the movies.

Four others were here but they've all gone. They've all moved on to families and promotions, finding their stability. The boxes have been filled and emptied so many times there hardly seems a point to keep the furniture around. There must be a word for a man who lives out of suitcases yet never travels.

I keep it cold as the pipes can stand and yes darkness is cheap but I don't like it. Darkness is what I've been dealt and I'm playing it the best I can. I wrap myself in robes and keep myself in hats and cover the colder crevices with bags meant for garbage. This place isn't meant for just one man.

When I wake up the brandy is spilled over the tile, dried, tacky. The curtains are drawn as always and the clock blinks twelve and I do not know whether I've slept through the night or day or which one it happens to be. But the air goes in and out, on and off, and the mouth tries to speak to me. But I'm tired, I'm drunk, and I refuse to listen.