A storm's coming

Faster, the bright colors of the world spiral into a clumsy blur. Patches of charcoal brown fill the vision, replacing the brilliant hues of fuscia, lavendar, and aqua usually painting the sky. Longing for dusk to break, a bit of yellow, the whites of fluffy clouds, he stares out the window.

His upper lip is tight. Flecks of copper catch reflection, casting a glow around the outline of his shape. He watches for its appearance down the driveway. Sometimes he looks so hard, his eyes make a fool of his mind.

It's never going to get here.

His forefinger and thumb methodically rub his temple. He momentarily casts his eyes down, willing the crippling headache to subside. He mouths a color for every letter of the alphabet, A, amber, B, burgundy, C, crimson... Slowly the pain fades until it is once again dull, replacing the vacant space behind his eyes.

His heart performs drum rolls. Not even separated by definitive beats, it practically buzzes beneath his shirt. He shifts in his chair. The black leather squeaks, the sound echoing through empty halls.

There's nothing left.

His eyes, diluted like the ocean, seep, waver, threaten to spill over. He sips cognac from a shallow glass and surveys the empty room. He holds the glass close to his mouth, resting it against the pockets of flesh beneath his cheek. The warmth of the liquid has dissipated, and like him, it is once again empty.

He hurls the glass at the wall. Shards spiral, disperse--little diamonds decorating the dust outline of the place an oriental rug once sat.

Footsteps. Clear, heavy-- he lifts his head. He drops to the floor, the smooth smell of pine drifting up his nostrils, tickling his brain. Though he's drunk, he recognizes the sweat on his lower lip. Licking the wetness, he closes his eyes, wishing to disapear.