The Cigarette Run
This resembles the truth…
1971, 7pm He sat there on the sofa rubbing the tips of his fingers together. The itch was overwhelming. It created an edge that was hard to pull back from. It drew him as a cement block draws a body down to the silt. The poison in his blood was making him feel too alive to sit still.
He rises and begins to pace. He’s trying to ignore the clinking from the motel bathroom where his wife is starting her shower.