The bullet bored through her skull. The finger pulled the trigger. The impulse, sent along the arm, triggered the muscles in the forearm. The man made up his mind.

The man pulled the revolver out of his pocket. The man shouted, his face red. The woman hit him. The man raised his fists. The woman screamed. The man told the woman to be quiet.

She had had enough. He walked in the door. He passed the mailbox with all the overdue bills with barely a glance. He trudged up the creaking stairs. On the street, a bird was startled by his passing. He sighed. A puddle splashed up onto his pants, wetting his socks.

The man became angry. He wandered dejectedly through the park. The man headed toward the park. He did not make up his mind to go there.

He sat alone in a restaurant, twirling his credit card and staring at the dancing flame of the candle. He ate the meal, staring at the candle through the entire meal. He sat, waiting for his menu, looking out the window in the cold, grey morning. He asked the maître d' if he could sit at that table.

He walked through the park, weaving among the trees.

The man left the supermarket with only a plastic bag. He left the line he was standing in, the longest, right before he reached the register. He gazed idly at the shelves. The man's feet took him twice around the store. He entered the store with nothing.

The man headed away, anywhere but here. A young girl and her little brother fought, trying not to attract the attention of their mother. The mother told her children to stop. The man watched the checkout line. He spent some time doing this; he stared up at all the books. He anchored his feet and entered the library.

He left home, walking purposefully, briskly. He slammed the door. The woman screamed at him to leave. She stood up angrily and the man pushed her into the coffee table.

"How could you do this to me!" she spat at him.

"I'm sorry," he said, raising his voice.

He told her.

"What are you doing home?" the woman snapped.

The man slowly unlocked the door and went in. He paused with the key in the lock. He trudged up the stairs, staring straight ahead. He walked up and down the street. The man skirted the park, walking around it.

His boss told the man, "You're fired. Get out of here." He tried to slip in, but his boss spotted him. He hurried toward the door. Slipping on a wet curb, he fell and bruised his knee. The man was not happy.

He left the park. A squirrel chittered in a tree off to his right. The man kicked a stray rock in his path. He kept his hands in his pockets, hunched over. He paused in the middle of the park, on a bridge overlooking a small pond. The rain fell, cold, but gently around him. It created ripples on the water's surface. One drop landed on his face. The man looked up and was happy.

Half a world away, past a hill and over a bed of flowers, a breeze knocked a butterfly into the ground.

BIC by alpha du centaure (source image)

Train Tracks by shoofle

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