Lazarus regarded the moon dubiously. It was hideous. Of course, he understood people’s love of the moon and its aesthetic beauty. But he was certainly no fan of it.
He drummed his fingers on the windowsill in his apartment, staring up at the slice of lunar rock. His reflection in the window stared at the space above his head. His eyes flicked to the reflection. Bright blue orbs, darkened by the night stared back at him. He looked at his pale face, his slouching figure. His entire demeanour shouted ‘I’m bored!’
He ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair. It wasn’t long, but it was unkempt. He didn’t care much for his appearance. There wasn’t much he could do about it anyway. His hair rebelled against even the strongest hair gel and waxes. He had given up long ago.
A moth fluttered into the room, twirling about the air as though it was dancing for him, attempting to entertain him. It flapped around near his head. He swatted it away half heartedly, withdrawing from the window and closing the curtains. As he flopped into the worn leather sofa, the moth followed him, its pale wings restlessly moving. It paused on the arm of the sofa, contrasting with the black leather. It didn’t stay there long, quickly drawn away by one of the lamps in the corner of the room, moving across the blank screen of the unnecessarily large television.
Sighing, Lazarus got up again, fetching a beaker and sheet of paper from the kitchen. He crept up on the moth as it was resting on the plasma screen, trapping it in the beaker. He watched the darkened figure beat itself against the side of the beaker before walking over to the window. He set the moth free, and rested his elbows against the windowsill again, contemplating the moon quietly.