The Man

A man woke up last morning and went about his rituals. Coming out of his dreamless sleep he sat up and decided he was too old. Standing up made his knees sound like a nut exploding on fire. Or chestnuts on an open fire. He shuffled toward the sink all the way on the other side of his one room apartment. He had had to move in here after his wife died. He couldn't pay for the funeral because he had no life insurance. His wife was buried with no ceremony. He finally arrived at his brown and yellow sink after his knees fired off a few more gunshots. He bent down to pick his razor off the side of his sink bowl. 

Running his faucet for a few seconds to get the brown out, he plugged his sink with his cracked rubber stopper. The water began to change pitch as his basin filled and he thought it was a school day, although the kids around here don't seem to care if it's Veterans Day, as long as they get their sex and drugs. He turned off his faucet and it squeaked at him. Dipping his razor into the water, and bringing it back up to his neck, he realized he had forgotten shaving cream. He has been shaving for only god knows how long and he forgot the shaving cream. Another joint somewhere on the man snapped. After lathering his face nice and good, he turned toward his closet door with his mirror on it and began to drag the razor along his rough skin, hearing that satisfying paper-tear sound of hairs being shortened to the appropriate length. All lined up and looking just the same like Hitler's Ubermensch or was it Nietzsche's Aryans or did it matter, they were soldiers. Soldier hair. The man then deliberately placed his folded razor back into place and equipped himself with his toothbrush. He began the prescribed short circles on his gums and felt a little cleaner after 2 minutes and thirty seconds of brushing, and nearly one minute of shaving. He shuffled a little faster back to his bed, and sat down expecting to hear, and hearing those familiar clicks coming from whichever joint decided to be a wise guy at that moment. Now sitting, he reached slowly for his July 89' issue of "Soldier of Fortune" magazine (his favorite), and hopped back shortly and made a little sigh of fear. He looked at it and figured it was harmless. He began to reach for his nearby tennis racket, when it looked straight at him.

He Froze.

Its little black eyes stared into his droopy green eyes with an indiscernible emotion. It was something the man knew, but could not remember.
He now knew it meant no harm. It was actually quite beautiful. It had a small yellow band round its neck and a yellow stripe down its head. It had swirls and mixes of yellows and blues everywhere. To the man it was a living flower and not the kind you buy your grandma. It was the kind of flower you buy for your girlfriend on a whim because you know that you are going to see her today and that you are going to fall just a little more in love with her. You and your wife have made a date out of a walk and you pick her this  flower to show her that after all these years, you still love her with your soul. The man retracted from the racket and sat with it, gazing into that living flower for the better part of an hour.

Then it left.