Smell the Roses when you Can

“Thank God the floor is clean.”
He stared down between hairy knees at the worn and stained garments wrapped around his ankles. Another wave hit, and he retched this time. The “Goddamn Oyster House” had done it again… One too many. A half formed thought crept up to interrupt the sickness “Is it only on months that end in Y? Or not on months that end in ‘Y’? Or only Summer…BRRRRRR and the force shuddered through him again.
This time, it oozed out. Strong and malicious. The smell was enough to burn the innocent. And still he clung to the porcelain. Like a lifeboat among the waves. Sweating; Eyes shut, he waited.
It was over at last, and he slumped like a defeated boxer. The only winner here was Big Nose down at the Joint selling rotten seafood to the dredges of humanity.
The small florescent bulb over the mirror flickered. And he still he waited. Sapped. Head on hands. Elbows on knees. “This is how they’ll find me” he thought candidly. In the tiny bathroom. Insignificant. Flies on the walls. But. At least the floor was clean.

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