The overturned bag showed its diamond rings, tennis bracelets, and random twenties. This would be enough for a month of bread and beer and cigarettes.
Red felt a pinch of shame, but it was fleeting at best.
He turned his eyes to the ceiling and stared blankly. Long arms tore the black shirt from his body and greasy fingers ruffled the stocking hat from off his stringy red mange.
Socks peeled down, Red laid back flat on the cool, snarled sheets. He sighed and took a mental inventory of his hotplate and his toothbrush and his ragged character shoes.
He spread his arms out wide in a pose of crucifixion and exhaled the smoke of a Marlboro Red.
He closed his eyes.
He heard the pound of nightly traffic just beginning to pick up.
He heard the hum of the building’s ancient air conditioning.
He heard his heart beat more slowly in his chest.
He fell asleep.
He dreamed.
He was wearing a starched white button down shirt that smelled of lilacs and rain. It was adorned with a skinny black tie and a small metal button that read in a language he didn’t know.
His shoes were glossy black with small nylon laces tied perfectly in bows.
He picked up a briefcase and kissed a woman on the forehead.
He knew many things all at once.
This was his wife.
This was his home.
He was off to work. Monday through Friday. His whole life long.
He would smile as he turned into bed that night.
He would not feel any shame.
He saw a pair of black, suede slippers at the edge of the bed.
He saw a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles being lifted to his face and changing his vision from blurred to focused.
And in the bathroom mirror he saw a small man with tight, squinting eyes and straight black hair.
The man was not him yet it was. As in dreams.
He straightened his tie and ran a hand down his freshly shaven cheek.
And just like dreams, Red didn’t know what he was doing.
