The Worst is Over (Perhaps) Pt. 1

Harold was, by any measure of the imagination, a rather uninteresting person. He lived in a single story house that was filled with old, 1970's furniture, and he sat out on his porch every night smoking cigarettes until the sun went down. He was getting old, and this simple fact seemed to slip by everyone except him. Years of smoking had stained his teeth and fingernails, and some unspoken tragedy in his life left dark, brooding circles under his eyes. His hair was short and graying, the model of an ungracefully aged senior.

However, unlike most seniors, Harold refused to be warehoused until he died. He only wanted two things in his life. His house, full of paraphernalia that meant nothing to him anymore. And to be able to enjoy a few cigarettes every night while he watched the sun go down. He didn't much care for neighbors, and he didn't care much for politics. They could both kiss his ass (for once).

However, one of Harold's neighbors was different from the rest. Sean was a young and upwardly-mobile young gentleman. The kind that had a plan and the means to see it through. The kind that saw partnerships and romances as monumental wastes of time and effort, or even veiled banditry. So he took, but never gave. He was openly promiscuous, but never committed. He was a blatant capitalist. But never disclosed how much he made. Harold didn't much care for the young dandy, but Sean was never gruff or annoying, so he tolerated him on occassion to join him for a smoke, watching the sun go down.

"Evening, Harold," said Sean one night, walking lazily up the old man's steps, suit jacket slung haphazardly over his shoulder.

"Evening," replied Harold, drawing a long, rancid puff of cigarette smoke. He couldn't be bothered to waste money on expensive cigarettes. So he only smoked domestics. The kind made with all-American engine tar and cat piss.

A wayward puff wafted towards Sean, but without batting a lid, he produced his own cigar, a narrow tubular construct, likely hand rolled by Cuban virgins in holy water with only the highest quality tobacco ensconsed within.

Sean gestured for a light, which Harold willingly obliged. After drawing a long drag, Sean blew three circles of pure, blue smoke. Sweet and salty and all together sickening when mingled with Harold's miasma.

"How old are you, Harold?" asked Sean, savouring his cigar.

"Old enough," replied the codger gruffly, inhaling half of his cigarette in annoyance. He hated small talk.

"Never been married?

The glare was answer enough.

"Me either," replied Sean, nodding to himself and chuckling. "Me either."

"But you... get around," muttered Harold. Sean chuckled more and drew another puff of his cigar.

"You could say that. I hate being bored."

Harold grumbled something under his breath before finishing his cigarette. Coughing roughly, he began rummaging in his pocket for another. Frustrated, he stopped for a moment and looked straight out into the setting sun.

"Yeah, you've been around. Lot of girls you bring home."

Sean continued to nod, smiling.

"Lot of girls you bring home. Never seen one leave."

Sean's smile became a grimace, a silent snarl. Harold was still looking into the sun. Somehow, he'd found another cigarette, and lit it up, pulling a long, satisfying pull.

"Never a one."