A man sits alone. Alone, for the first time in a decade. In a square, black, faux-leather arm chair, which came with the IKEA furnished rental. His new 50” TV blares on the wall but makes no sense for him.
Tonight, the only sound he hears is his left ring finger tap, tap, tapping on the whisky glass. He takes a gulp of the vintage liquid but doesn’t taste it.
Tap, tap, crack.
Pulling off the ring, he drops it in the broken glass, abandons the glass in the recycling bin, turns the TV off and goes to bed.
Alone.