He lives on a mountain in a cabin with his wife. Every morning, he wakes early before her, kisses her on the forehead, and makes coffee. He still wears the blue robe his mother gave him years ago—it’s ripped along the bottom. He sits on his deck drinking coffee, breathing in mountain air. He writes in his journal. Sometimes his writing feels good, other times not. When not, he reads. Reading shows him what he’s doing wrong.
His wife likes to decorate. She hangs brightly colored paintings on the walls. She buys a variety of trinkets on all their travels—ranging from statues to rugs. Each has a story, the voodoo doll from South America or the rug from Africa. He enjoys them. He enjoys her. She takes care of him. She makes lunch and they eat fresh tomato and avocado sandwiches.
In the afternoon, he drives down the mountain in his jeep. He listens and sings poorly with Bob Dylan. In town, he stops at the grocery store, picking up milk and bread and more avocados. Everyone knows him. He says hi, politely sharing thoughts on the weather. Outside, he smokes a cigarette. He goes home to share dinner with his wife. They eat fish.
At night, he sits on his deck eating mangos and drinking coffee, this time decaf. He lights tiki torches and candles. He writes in his journal. His writing feels good, so he doesn’t read. He joins his wife in bed and kisses her on the forehead before he drifts to sleep.
He wakes in a lonely bed to the screaming of his alarm clock. He hasn’t cleaned his apartment for months. He stumbles down the hall, hung over from cheap wine. The grime on the floor feels scratchy against his feet. Pushing play on his record player, he listens to Bob Dylan. He washes his face and makes coffee. He writes for a newspaper. He hates the newspaper. He walks to work, needing mountain air.
