I told him about all that had happened since we last saw each other, all the events, situations, celebrations and tribulations. He didn't seem to pay any attention or even pretend to care any more to my conversation than the cigarette that was currently between his index and middle finger.
"They're menthols." He said. "Apparently my breath stinks badly enough for me to start smoking this crap."
He took a drag out of that green-ringed cancer stick and I could see he wasn't enjoying it, hell, half of the cigarette butts in the ashtray were only burnt halfway. He couldn't finish even one.
"I guess I also wanted a little change, you know. I chose to smoke this shit only because it was my decision, not because it was better for me. Fuck, if anything I'm killing myself faster."
Autumn had come around early this year and you could already see it on his face, on the color of his skin. He was paler than usual, his hair longer and unkept as if he'd just gotten out of bed. "You like the hair?" He asked as he ran his fingers through it. "It's one more of those things I'm trying to change just so that I can feel I have power over something. I personally hate it but I've come to a point where I don't care."
As with many things I could tell he wasn't convinced of much of what he was saying. I don't think he's unhappy, I just think he's unsatisfied, frustrated with everything that's happened. He says it never seems to end, and that there's no end in sight.
"Sons of bitches keep telling me there's more for me to do, to send, to correct, to prove. Damn assholes have my whole life neatly filed in a manila folder. Sometimes I feel they know more about me than myself."
Another half cigarette gets put out, extinguished along with many other half-lives. Another sip from his endless cup of coffee, I swear the man could drink a whole pot and his fingers wouldn't even shake.
"It's getting colder earlier this year..." He said as he lit another one, smoke covering his face, drifting between his eyes and his glasses making the world around seem to be enveloped in a milky haze.
"...and I still haven't gotten my shit together. There's so much to do, I just don't know what it is. Everyone seems to be getting somewhere except me."
The guy has been locked inside this small cage for so long, that he doesn't know what else to do now. He's forgotten what he used to be, what he used to do; he no longer knows what he's good or bad at. He feels just like a faceless and voiceless standing figure in a crowd where know one knows who or what he is.
"You'll find this funny." His words cutting off my train of thought. "I went to this supposed 'job interview', right? And the guy, this 'big hot-shot in the business actually asked me if I spoke 'Mexican'. Can you believe that?"
He chuckled and stood up. "It's time for me to go. I have more of nothing to do back home."
"I'll be seeing you around, yeah?"
"Yeah..."
