Oscar sat watching the blood red sun pull itself up above the Parisian rooftops. It trudged slowly over the chimneys and glowed against his bare shoulders. The small window was cracked ajar, and the warm summer air thickened the cold room. His forearms were stacked on top of each other on the window sill, a cigarette slowly burning away in his right hand. The room froze around the smoke which tailed away out the open window. He was just staring at the red glow of the Lucky Strike and the milky waterfall that was erupting from its open head. Light, burn, burn, burn.
"Could you go buy me some cigarettes?" she asked. "And some bread too, I'm so hungry."
"Yeah...yeah just a second." Depressed, Oscar sucked the last bit from his cigarette then dragged it across the floor of the ash tray. He sat, hunched over in the wrought-iron chair looking out on the morning skyline. It was a Saturday.
Oscar was a decently-built man - nothing that would impress, but he felt good about himself. He had thick brown hair and a defined cheekbone that complemented his five o'clock shadow nicely. Suits seemed to hug his figure well and he knew this, so he wore them everyday.
The sidewalks were empty at this hour in the morning. Avenue de la Grande Armée.........
Oscar always found something soothing, therapeutic even, about being entirely alone on these streets. In one hour, businessmen on scooters would weave between cars and the silly French sirens would howl out in battle cry. He still avoided sidewalk cracks, even sacrificing his looking like a decent human being - he carried that from childhood.
But today would be the day he died.
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