He stabbed at a plateful of mixed field greens, unadorned by dressings, his entire line-of-site icebergs, endives, and arugulas.  This and a halfbottle of champagne was dinner tonight, and he was just carving his way through the explosively bland spring mix to get to the comparatively stellar room-temperature sparkling wine. He didn’t cry, not at all during the meal, but as he gulped down ounces from his flute, the water levels began to rise. There were two lights on - one directly above, and one across the kitchen, over the bar, aiming sordidly onto the dining room table where perfectly nothing had happened in quite some time. In fact, he had thought, there was no need for that table as the one which held up his place-setting was doing a reasonable job. 

 

Just as he started washing up, he realized he didn’t want to wash up, and so instead lit a cigarette on the oven burner, hopped on the counter, took several drags and hum-mumbled the song he had in his head.