by Chris Milam
He instantly hated the man eating a donut with a fork. Only affluent folks think fried dough is to be handled with elegance. Marcus wanted to step through the glass and teach him how to properly demolish a long john. Instead, he waited.
When the man finally stepped outside, Marcus slipped on his desperation mask.
“Sorry to bother you, any chance you have an extra dollar or two?”
“I believe I do,” he said, handing him a ten pulled from a silver money clip. “Best donuts in town, if you’re hungry.”
No, sophisticated man. I don’t drink with a fork.
Later, Marcus walked around downtown, his half-empty King Cobra, a liquid antidepressant and thought crematorium, sticking out of his grey peacoat, a gift from a local church. He hated charity, but he needed charity when the dark days stacked on top of him like garbage at a landfill. It was impossible to see sunshine from the bottom of the pile because light had no interest in rooting him out.
He sat on a bench painted by night school volunteers from an art class at Monroe University. The colors blended together, forming what he thought looked like a pool of melting crayons. Across the street, a group of young, attractive people sipped from glass mugs at an outdoor cafe. Marcus watched them laugh and smile genuinely and make eye contact with one another, watched them being what he stopped chasing years ago.
He gulped a hit of malt liquor, put it back in his pocket, took a last look at the carefree coffee drinkers, then headed back to the gutted house on Second Street. He just wanted to sleep, it was the only way to turn off reality for a couple of hours and not feel anything. That was always the hardest part to achieve, the not feeling anything.
Chris Milam lives in Hamilton, Ohio. His stories have appeared in Lost Balloon, Jellyfish Review, WhiskeyPaper, FlashBack Fiction, formercactus, Train Lit, Molotov Cocktail, Ghost Parachute, JMWW, and elsewhere. He was nominated for Best Small Fictions 2018. You can find him on Twitter @Blukris.