He went for a short walk. Without a destination, away from home, in his eskimo coat; like a rolling stone. He ended up at a local gas station: Shell, about two blocks away; his new kicks kept my feet darling. He noticed the door of the gas station's grocery store was opened wide: lights were escaping from inside, slicing the dark outside a few feet away. He entered. His and the clerk's eyes met, but it meant no more or less than a greet. He demanded for a pack of Pall Mall. The clerk swiftly turned around (as he already knew where Pall Malls were located on the shelf behind him).
When do you guys close? He asked.
We don't close, we're open twenty-four-seven. Was the response.
Nice. He retorted.
The clerk scanned the little box that was merely the size of a grown man's hand (possibly from the bottom of the palm to the mid-joint).
4. 49 The clerk said inanely.
The man reached out for his wallet in his back left pocket. And reached in for a five dollar bill: placed adjacent to an old and wrinkled ten dollar bill and handed it to the clerk. The clerk punched the buttons, the cash register spat its tongue out in a rude manner. The clerk was gathering the coins from each sections.
That's alright. He said.
He walked out while ripping open the packaging. He depicted a cigarette out from the pack and gently placed it between his lips and reached inside of his eskimo coat pockets for a book of matches. Once he had the cigarette lit, he was told by his black Casio wristwatch that it was 3:24 AM, May 29th. Nor tired or sleepy, he decided to go for a longer walk around the town. The chains of smoke rings left its trace, were the only evidence left of him.
