A broken down thin widower sitting at a once pearl white kitchen table-now an off colored yellow, pockmarked with coffee stains and cigarette smudges. An oppressive thick blanket of smoke slowly and mechanically churns and lurches and strangles the room. He picks at his rusty eyebrow; he licks at his fissure riddled lips. He mutters. He lifts his head straining to hear his wife's voice. For a moment his eyes flick-they swell, for a moment he breathes, his fingers tick the lighter. In a slow crestfallen black swirl: he realizes it's just the wind. It's always the wind.
