Morning Walk

My walk was marked by that general indecisiveness, which accompanies leisurely mornings devoted to nothing much.  The clouds hung in a low mist above the rooftops, as if coaxed to the ground by clinging rain.

The sweat under my arms turned cold under my breathless black jacket.  My body trying to keep itself cool in the cool surrounding air.  My breathing was labored though the hills were not rolling, but I liked puffing the crisp air in and out of my lungs.  It made me feel alive, clean.

A man, also in black, stood under the small overhang of his porch, smoking a cigarette, cup of coffee in hand.  It must be nice, to have a house with a porch to stand on during rainy days.  To be kept warm by a small flame.

He looked content, calm, perfect in the scene he made for himself.  I walked into the sick smell of cigarette that always seems to reach beyond the smoke itself.  It brought me back to casino carpets and sounding slot machines followed by metal hitting metal.  For a moment, I was home.

The mist decided to become rain, so I pulled my hood over my still drying hair.  I wondered if there would be a place for me at the cafe.