Worst Worthwhile Wind

The neighbors noticed, now the blinds are closed.  Unclothed, he stares defiantly, then needs to turn the heater on.

On any other day he might be offended; today he felt more or less vindicated.  More or less, he thinks to himself.  Comme ci, comme ça.  An outline of tepidness, like the splashes of water around the bathmat.  But it doesn't matter.

Nevertheless, the day aches to begin, & he jams his thumb reaching for something in the medicine cabinet.  He curses - as his dad used to say - like he was cursed.  There was nothing to do but wiggle it helplessly, as if the pain could be complained away.  Then the phone rang.

Bad news travels fast, faster still on a beamed satellite stream.  He wasn't ready for the news, now he's unsteady, sitting on the edge of the bath, bathed in sweat.  Was it a death in the family, or worse, a friend?  Was it the loss of love, a job, an opportunity?

You can't spell opportunity, his dad used to say, without r-u-i-n.  His dad had fallen asleep at a traffic signal one morning, & then at his desk later that day.  That night, the cleaning crew found him dead at his desk, an unfinished game of solitaire on his computer.

Death wouldn't even let him finish a game, a co-worker had said.  Not even a new high score!

Why he had thought of his father at that moment?  He tells the story to the voice on the phone, but then stops, confused, confusing.  Such expensive silence.

He never told anyone why he broke down that day, though he did lie & say he'd broken his thumb.  Someone noticed on social media he had "checked in" to some establishment two towns over, but soon even the speculation was over, & life continued against most everyone's wishes.

When the neighbors moved away, he'd stare at the empty window, & when those nights got too lonesome, he'd stare into his own eyes, which were emptier still.