g570145294, 1 сентября 2016 г., 12:45
He had to flick the lighter a couple of times before making it work. The wind trying to burn it out as soon as the flame stood steady didn't make him feel less annoyed, but the butt ignited anyway, so take that invisible air bender. He was sitting on the front steps of his porch, a bottle of beer beside him and the moon shining overhead. Its lunar roundness was keeping his sanity intact and to a certain extent he was thankful. He took a drag, keeping the nicotine-infused air longer before releasing it through pursed lips, upward into the night. The way the smoke went about its way scattering everywhere with no exact direction—it was how he felt it. He was going nowhere, he knew that. He was smoking at the front porch for crying out loud. His wife passed a week ago and he took up the habit as soon as she lived six feet under the ground. Or rather dead-lived. She was dead. Not living. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. It was irony at its best. The doctor said that she couldn't handle any more of the treatment that was supposed to save her—any longer and it's just as well that they hadn't bothered to try. Oh how he missed her. Day by day he snaked his way around the house until she was unaware and brought the flowers that failed to sell to the audience out from his back, simultaneously pecking her on the cheek. He'd always get a daisy. How she loved daisies, her namesake. They were plainly beautiful, like how she was. And to him, plain beauty was everything. It had made life seem less faulty. It had made love seem a lot more easy. It had made working seem more of a hobby and a lot less like a job. She made him smile. She made him happy. And to him, as a clown, happiness is a must. Sometimes, when life felt more sucky than usual, she'd be there using his tricks of trade against him just to get an upright curve. She'd make funny faces, making the red nose and the rainbow wig a hell lot more hilarious. She'd never use the make-up on herself but she'd ambush him with the blush brush, throwing powder everywhere and messing their humble home up with it. She'd miserably try to create balloon animals but would give up eventually and instead forced him to believe that the elongated piece of rubber was a worm and, ''Look, it wriggles.'' ''No, Daisy. It's just swishing up and down.'' ''IT'S A WORM AND IT'S WIGGLING.'' ''Alright, alright... whatever you say.'' She was what made his audience laugh. Although they see him, in truth that was her. The pretend slip-ups were her. The lame jokes were her. The slapstick, wig-wearing, polka-dotted shoes, idiosyncratic make-up, and patched-up clothing form of humor was all her. The ability to make people laugh was because of her. Everything that was him was her. She was the sun to his cloudy afternoon. The comic relief to his stoic hero. The class clown to his history class. It was her voice that echoed telling him that he wasn't any loser than she was getting any better. He attempted at black comedy but that was his specialty. He was happy. She was his happiness. He was a clown. She was the punch line. And boy did she hit home.
6 
0
Просмотров: 95
Подписок на автора: 27
Поделиться
