He pulls into his driveway, the frigid snow snapping under his tires. Rolling up the crack in the window he gets out of the truck, shuts the door and drops his cigarette to the ground crushing it under the heel of his cowboy boot. Pulling a roll of antacids from his coat pocket he unwraps the last chalky piece and tosses it into his mouth grinding it with his molars. The powdery texture and unappetizing flavours don't bother him anymore.
Walking up the stairs to his front door the dogs, having sensed his presence, start barking madly from their perch in the bay window beside the door. Exhaling the last drag from his cigarette, he glances up at the them and smiles at their incorrigible excitability and steals himself for their furious welcome home. It's been a long, cold, never ending day and he's glad to be home even though he replaces the heaviness of work-life with the heaviness of domestic challenges. He notes the interlocking brick needs to be refitted in the Spring and adds it to his mental list of things to do around the house when it warms up. For now he can at least ignore the needs outside since it's too cold to get much accomplished.
Opening the front door ushers in a shocking gust of bitter air that doesn't seem to faze the dogs and the flurry of their tails and kisses. Ok, ok, he pets them, yes, I'm home. Their joy barely recedes as he kicks of his boots and hangs up his jacket and gloves smelling of gasoline and washer fluid. He pads up the stairs into the living room. The TV is on but no one is watching it. It's his new TV--wide screen HD mounted on the wall above the fireplace. It's just a TV but it's like a trophy on the mantel and he pauses for a moment to enjoy the crisp image and sound of Dr. Phil before he calls out to no one in particular 'I'm having a shower.'
He goes into the bathroom and automatically locks the door behind him. Now that his daughter and her husband and child live in the basement apartment privacy measures must be taken. He starts the shower before he's in unwilling to get into a luke-warm shower after being outside in the chill of winter all day. He strips off his sweater and undershirt in one movement and dumps it half inside-out in the corner by the door. He faces the mirror above the sink and combs his fingers through his disheveled hair that stands on end from being sucked through the neck of his sweater and undershirt. His hand falls to the edge of the counter and he looks into his own eyes--the tired eyes of a tired man. He rests his other hand on the edge of the counter and his back sinks in between his shoulder blades. The shower is hot now and steam starts to etch the corners of the mirror into which he is lost.
Matters of this life consume him and wash in and out of his mind as he stares back at himself. Today was just an ordinary day, a good day even, but left alone with his thoughts with nothing to distract him and outside noises hushed by the rush of water he was heavy with his burdens, uncertain, unknowing and feeling very alone.
There's a slight resemblance--minus the cocaine eyes and kewpie/cupi/QP doll lips.
