A gloved hand held the fruit, teeth resting against the firm, smooth skin, a moment of hesitation, the sun in his eyes and the flutter of wings, he bit the apple. Enamel tour through the crisp flesh, filling his nostrils with a sweet scent that he had always been fond of. The other hand rested limply in the pocket of his pants, fingering loose change, a ticket stub and the single key to his apartment. He was standing too close to the platform, his mother would have a fit.
Thumb strikes the flint wheel, a flame whispers to life, lingers for a moment and vanishes as quickly as it had appeared,
Thumb struck the flint wheel, produced an ephemeral, whispering flame, lingered for a moment before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, retracting into the darkness as the lighter snapped shut. Exhaling a satisfied puff smoke, he relished in its metallic chill and allowed gravity to sink the lighter, drifting to the bottom of his pocket. A thin, diaphanous wisp of smoke drifted toward the crisp September sky. His grey eyes following each movement, met the open heavens, scattered patches of clouds and stillness in the air that accompanied autumn afternoons. The station platform was empty, a vast expanse of loneliness upon which he stood, smoking, brooding, waiting.
The cigarette, caught between his index and middle finger, moved slowly to his lips, hovered there for a moment, the flutter of wings and a ghost from his memories, he inhaled. Had a habit of mumbling with a hand and cigarette over his lips, of slouching because he never enjoyed his height, of fiddling with things in his pocket, of standing too close to the platform edge, his mother would yell at him, of being impatient, but he was waiting now. He made her a promise, didn’t he? He’d wait for her, and so, he’s waiting. A pained smirk, of all the promises to keep