Smoke curls in lithely tendrils from the tip of a lone cigarette left to burn in a crystal ashtray. On the supple leather couch precariously close to this fire hazzard sits David. His broad shoulders and well muscled bare chest slump forward allowing massive work worn hands to cradle his face making him look slighter than he really is. His hair hangs over the tips of his fingers and ears like the night sky dripping freely from his head. Just beyond his obscurred vision is a crumpled white sheet of paper taken from the desk, next to the picture of it's author.
Tears mix happily with the chlorine filled drops still clutching at his smooth skin and dribble onto his knee. He had been here before, left alone. His sobs break the tidium of ticking coming from the grandfather clock in the corner; a gift from her. He mourned her , while despising only the letter, a "Dear John" placed heartlessly on the coffee table they had chosen together only a week before.
The doorbell rang wrenching him from his tears. Was she back? He ran to answer not bothered about modesty. It was a dilivery, the ring she wouldn't wear.