The liquid touched his lips. It flowed into his mouth He swallowed the liquid. He coughed. The liquid spilled over his undershirt. The undershirt was threadbare. It was yellowed like the old man and in places it bore holes. He sat the Mason jar back on the porch. It landed with a thud. He placed his hands on his lap and he faced the sun. His eyes closed. The empty neighborhood belonged to the old man and the old tom and the buzz of the warm electric wires. Silence surrounded the old man. The smell of many gardens filled his nose. He smiled. He rocked. He heard gravel crunching. He heard a whirl. He guessed a bicycle. He stopped rocking. He waited and he listened for the whirl of the wheels to pass, but he heard a skid. He heard the crash of the bicycle landing against the earth. Footsteps landed on his steps. He heard them."Go away," the old man said."I will not go away," a girl's voice said. "I came here to talk with you."He opened his eyes. She looked down at him. The sun had. Fuck them all. She was done. Out of here. There was no way she was going to put up with this bullshit anymore. People walking all over her, treating her like she was some kind of communal whipping post just because she wasn’t In The Band. Hell, she paid rent here, too. More than her share most of the time, the broke-ass motherfuckers. And cleaned up after them. And kept the kitchen stocked. And kept him from flipping out on them when he was in one of his moods. It had all been bearable, kind of, as long as she had him to turn to, but after last night… Jesus, he wasn’t even sorry. She could see it in his eyes. He’d looked up at her from between that bitch’s legs, his mouth still wet, and he’d licked his goddamn lips and smiled. Motherfucker. ‘Why don’t you join us,’ he’d said, winking. Like it was some party she was fashionably late for. No big deal, we’re just having a good time. You can too if you don’t start acting crazy and ruin the fun for everyone. No broken promises, here. No.
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