individu[al(one)]
He is at work. Wednesday comes.
Hey, we’re off to the pub. Coming?
Sure. Why not.
Football scores. Office politics. The girl in the corner wearing blue.
Nothing to say. Sips beer. No response to desperate glances.
Better get home or there’ll be hell to pay, am I right?
Right.
He is at work. Friday comes.
TGIF, am I right?
Right.
She’s got my weekend booked, shopping and a BBQ, groan. You?
Nothing much.
I wish.
Three beers and Netflix. Pizza delivery. Quiet bed.
He is at work. Monday comes.
So busy this weekend, didn’t have a minute to myself. How about you?
Oh, you know. Quiet.
You’re lucky, time to yourself.
Yes. Lucky me.
Friday can’t come quick enough, am I right?
Right.
He is quiet. No trouble. No drama.
No sun. Engulfed by eternal cloud, muffled, numb.
Rain drips icy fingers down his neck, freezing his bones.
Invisible, lost, a lone wolf.
Teeth ripping at his own heart.
A final scream, choked.
None to sing his elegy.
