He was eating peanut butter off the spoon, washing it down with bourbon, and starting his day at four o'clock. People were upset, incensed, at the weather. It was almost June and the cold was, well, there. It wasn't anything more than just plain cold but, still, it was cold. He stayed in, comforted himself, let his aching body rest.
He watched an old Italian woman cook. The sizzling slices of garlic were a pleasing white noise, and suddenly his meal looked even less than it already was. A nice, big, hot plate of spaghetti might cure what ailed him. He hadn't bought spaghetti in weeks. Months? He had none. He did not want to face the cold.
Mashed peanuts, sugar, oil, corn, a charred barrel. Peanuts and corn, that's what he was sitting there consuming, and it was nice to think of it this way. It seemed less sad to him. Crushed tomatoes, starch, two cloves of garlic, something that would sting, however, is what he craved. He checked for his garlic, which he found, peeling and green-stemmed. It was living and growing in his house. At least something was.
There was no wind. There was no rain. There were not even clouds. And looking out the window one might have thought that today was a perfectly lovely day. Looking through to the other side, one might even think the same.
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