Our guest; and your friend sat there, with all the worries of an ant resting on his shoulders. The rain did not soak but kiss his already wet skin. As he looked up he pondered the complexities of a sky so estranged by color it reminded him of a Pollock he had once seen in some reminiscent galley in a far away city much greater than the one he now called ‘home’.
The word home would resonate out like a bad lyric in an otherwise okay song and stick in your mind just a little more than the rest. For truth be told Esteban had not felt at home for some years now, just a traveling hat that fell at intervals so decided by chance and mystics. He had always been one for solitude and would often admit he sought pleasure in woe. Something inside had never sat well with him and this obvious in his character, to all but himself.
As the night wore on and the showers lifted he would remain, comfortable, with one finger gently screwing around his nose and the other firmly grasping a cigarette. Some novel of an inspiring and daring road trip would lay very suited on his lap. He would read certain lines over and over and repeat them till they were gospel and made sense to only the author and himself. His red wine now stale and cold would be drank like the rioja tempranillo he yearned for. Slowly and with more love than anyone should devote to the devils blood.
In the dimly lit rooms of abandoned beds and couches he would dream of women and let out sighs far to loud to be aimed at himself. Nobody was every there to pick up his jaw and rest soft embrace on his weary soul. He was always aware he was alone and again soaked, in that guilty pleasure all man kind secretly enjoy. Self Pity now painted the walls as he nodded of, he was too far gone to stop himself. ‘An exile in a room of solitude’ he would repeat to himself before those chains broke his will and once more he would sleep alone.