He held his cup of coffee as if it were a beloved body of a woman. Though his fingers were burning he still held it. First smoke of a day. Sunday morning in his small kitchen overlooking the urban backyard with the first light glowing a bit of hope. Last cigarette in the packet. He didn’t intend to buy another one till the end of the week. Every puff was wild, greedy almost clumsy. He saw the smoke floating to the opposite balconies. Dusted railings, laundries and almost dead basils. He watched it sneak into sealed blinds. Bedrooms full of hugs, kitchen windows with just woke up and uncombed people bumping on the cupboards looking for the sugar jar. Snoozing that covers up thoughts and moods. Sunday morning in the city. The rhythmic church bell sound coming from far away in the deathly silence. He was now used to it. He was also used to the pile of bills on the door of his fridge. And they multiplied as long as his anxieties and fears.
Sunday morning. She was still sleeping in his bed with the sheets rudely caressing her naked body and her hair getting in her face and in her breathing. Spring time in the city. Not much money in the pocket. But were there ever enough? He stayed out at his small balcony for as long the cigarette lasted. He gazed the external urban scenery and his internal one. Stubbornness for all things to come and a lust for morning kisses. Last puff. He put out his cigarette, had another coffee sip and hurried inside to lay down beside her.
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