The Territorial

The man woke up to the sound of the neighbor’s dog vomiting in the hallway again.

It was the kind of noise that made you question who really had it worse, the dog or him.

The light from the window was thin and gray, the kind that didn’t promise much of a day ahead.

He sat up, wiped the sweat off his face, and found his shirt on the floor, half under a bottle that had rolled itself into a corner during the night.

The kitchen smelled like smoke and wet newspaper. The man had fallen asleep at the table again, scribbling on a notepad, and couldn’t find it now.

He remembered writing something about how everyone’s an actor, even the honest ones. Maybe it was genius.

Maybe it was trash. Probably both.

He poured himself a coffee and added a shot of yesterday’s whiskey, stirring it with his finger. The cup had a chip on the rim, but he drank from it anyway.

There was a comfort in using broken things. They made you feel less alone.

By noon, he’d dressed, which just meant wearing pants that didn’t smell too bad. He checked the envelope on the counter, the rent notice.

The landlord’s handwriting was too neat for a man who’d once threatened to break his kneecaps. He laughed at that, though it wasn’t funny.

He’d borrowed money from a woman he didn’t love but had pretended to. It wasn’t much, just enough to get through another week.

But last night, she’d come by and said she wanted it back, or something else instead. He didn’t remember how the conversation ended, just that the glass ashtray wasn’t where it used to be, and she’d stopped talking before she reached the door.

He finished his drink and looked at his hands. There was a dark smudge on his left one.

Could’ve been ink, or something else, but he didn’t care to check. The room was quiet except for the hum of the fridge, that tired, constant sound that reminded him of breathing.

He thought about calling her, saying something, anything really. But what was there to say?

That it wasn’t supposed to happen? That he didn’t mean to?

He didn’t think about meaning anymore.

He just did them, then waited for the morning to decide what kind of man he was.

Outside, the sky had turned a dull silver.

He poured another drink, this time without the coffee.

It went down easier than the first.

He opened a window and let some air in.

The street below smelled like rain and diesel smoke.

He thought of her again, her perfume, her silence.

Then he looked at the ashtray.

It sat clean and heavy in the center of the table, catching what little light there was. Lighting a cigarette, the man balanced it on the edge, watched the smoke rise, and waited for it to disappear.