Story for Charles Bukowski

It's cold. The kind of cold that aches you. The kind of cold that forces people to migrate. He's walking, thick coat, gloves, hat. It still doesn't completely protect against the cold. It's a short walk less than half a mile. The liquor store stays open late, and with his sleeping habits the stores hours suit him well. He enters the store and grabs the twelve pack he came for. He makes the cold walk home. The walk home always seems shorter than the walk there. He steps into his small, dim apartment. He has a small t.v., once couch and a single mattress thrown on the bedroom floor. There's a weeks worth of dishes sitting in the sink. He puts the beer in the fridge and takes one out for himself. He opens it and sits on the couch. He drinks without turning on the t.v. He sits in silence, he sits alone. He drinks with impunity and passion. He survives, he scrapes out an existence. He breathes, eats, forgets, remembers, drinking all the while. He sits alone in a small, dim apartment. He sits alone on the couch and he drinks.