bus stop

It rained this morning. Puddles on the asphalt reflect a dismal gray sky. Telephone posts hold up the sky as if it was the drooping tent of an abandoned carnival. A weak and clammy wind pushes against Leon's navy blue windbreaker. He keeps walking, step after step, towards the metal-post bus stop. The bench is damp and cool, the wood has soaked in every stray raindrop this morning. Leon sits, the seat of his pants wet. His camel colored hushpuppies squish rain-swollen cigarettes, Leon pulls a dry one out of his front pocket, Marlboro Reds. The cellophane slips off the pack and falls to the pavement. He remembers the last butt he smoked before Ronnie was born. It's been eleven years since then, he takes a drag. Ronnie isn't here anymore.

Eleven years without cigarettes, without selfish spending, or a break from work. It's surprising how easily habits return. Leon's thick carpenter hands dwarf the burning Marlboro. A giant man, he stands six foot four. He's built like a lumberjack. He sits slouched, his head is down, his hands heavy on his knees. The wind picks up, pushing Leon's khakis tight against his thick legs. The 705 bus rolls through, stopping just long enough for the doors to unfold. The rain picks up again.