He stumbled into the room, tired and exhausted. He slumped onto the old red chair, showing the world his new shoes that he lifted onto the coffee table."Feet off the table," A faint voice yelled from the kitchen as if it could predict his actions. Moments later a tall woman entered the room, carrying a beer in one hand, and what only could be wine in the other. A drop of precipitation slid down the neck as she handed him the bottle, the cold touch of it felt foreign to his hand but he received it with a smile and took a sip. She sat down and started talking, not very interesting; just small talk with the odd “oh yeah, that was interesting” every now and again followed by a sip of the beverage of whomever was listening, a typical conversation between a working man and his wife after a long day at work.

The clocked ticked 7 o'clock and the woman excused herself to continue her work on dinner. He sat; content in the soft chair he was in and the jazz playing on the transistor radio that rested on the fireplace. In the fireplace was a forever changing spectrum of oranges, yellows, and reds that lit up the room, casting dark shadows onto the walls that moved and flickered.


It's 8 o'clock and dinner was simple, a typical steak dinner that was plain but however filled all hunger the man once possessed and left him in a state of self bliss as a cigar that lay in his mouth is lit. A smokey haze filled the room, reflecting the dancing characters of the fireplace. His wife was in the kitchen cleaning up the tableware used in the meal, she continued to talk to him through the cream coloured walls and every now and again he would reply with an acknowledgement and a small length of ash would fall and land in a glass ashtray that lay on a side table to his left. He sat in the room engulfed by the smoke and the orange hues, the radio still spewing its smooth riffs and saxophone solos. His mind was relaxed and his body was spread over his favourite chair that permanently smelt of tobacco and the cologne he so often wore. He continued to sit for a small while before his wife called for him to help him, reluctantly he placed his cigar on the ashtray and prepared to help her. His wife entered the room to be greeted by the cloud of grey pollution from the little smoke that still emitted from her partners cigar, she stood in the door way, with her legs against the door-frame and a firm grasp on the towel that she held in front of her. He stood, walked to her, grabbed her, and laid a small delicate kiss on her as he took the tea-towel from her hands, he hands still soft from the water that rests in the sink.