Faust

Best counterfeit of death

         The thoughts alternating in my head fade second by second into fog till I'm dozing off while the washer stops the low groans and the timer resets to four glinting zero.

         Heated steam rushes to my face before ascending to the mold-infested ceiling, the touch of clothes is both rigid and soft as rays of white vapor cloud the sleeve cuffs and zippers.

        Sweeping the lid shut, a low bang sounded hollow in the half-open space while the four zeros on the timer shone back to four eight. I fix the 'out of order' sign upright and pick up the basket.

          The moon ain't up tonight, not in my sight at least. Between two lamp poles across the empty driveway and the flickering one on my left, the dark sky above dipping an uncomprehending indigo and the cracked concrete pavement under my feet with the graffiti of a horse head sneezing. The spent incandescent behind me was the only light the world had given me.
                                      ***

           Past the wobbly gate and a little over a hundred stairs, I was greeted by 25-degree Celsius controlled temperature from the central system again. Dumping the basket next to the closet, the earlier sense of weariness grew passively to a wriggling, soothing numbness. Despite the pocket watch on the nightstand indicates it's only nine.

Jet late has a weird way of operating. I put the Colt pistol back on the nightstand and pick up the wrinkling pack of smoke from the mess on the table with the matches under brass knuckle.

Sitting by the edge of my bed, I glance at the thinnest hand of the clock. As soon as it finishes a rotation, my left thumb tucks the package open. Bumping the bottom of the pack made two sticks of filter poke out, I bite the taller one between my teeth as my right index finger slid open the tacky, black-and-gold matchbox. My left thumb bent the lid of cigarette pack back and pressed it down between my ring finger and pinkie and the other three pick up a match, rub against the striker, tilting the end of the cig towards the small ember while my breaths grew rapid to draw the spark brighter.

I flicked the withered match towards the dumpster across the room before cocking my head back at the pocket watch.
4 seconds.
A laugh escapes my lips beside loaves of smoke.
Still second to maxim.
The afterthought came as a package, with so many by-products, little things linked with habits and intertwined with old faces. But I left the box sealed and threw the pack of cigarettes back on the table.

Resting the cigarette by my nightstand, I push the mattress aside and sat down by the opened safe to start recording all the expenses occurred today, the blasted 502, the new 9 mm, the quartz dagger, lunch, three-piece suit.

Then the possible problems in the future, the luthier wants his dues pay in physical labor in the weeks to come. If anything goes wrong at Club 57, dojo will rat me out in a heartbeat, and I have a feeling they won't be as eager to cut a deal with me again this time.

I take another drag, running my thoughts back to the bespoke tailor, about Enzo and Maurizio. The tip of the sparkle closes in on the end unobtrusively as it hangs on the edge of my mouth. A whiff of grey smoke stings my eyes shut, exhorting me to not overthink the look on tailor's face when he saw the strap.

And there's Enzo's fucking takeaway on this city riding towards hell on 5-9 traffic rush.

          "If they could keep it at the edge for five years.  They're the actual voice of this war....

It's not that I've never thought of it, years ago when the workshops and one-use slug shooter first came to view. Back then everyone thought the Russkies would respond more hurriedly.