Routine

The old man woke up, went downstairs poured himself a coffee and made his way outside into the garden. He looked up at the sky closed his eyes and sniffed at the air. He was alive. He told himself. and he mattered. His wife no longer loved him. He no longer loved her. They rarely spoke, rarely spent time together in each others company. They had become transparent with each other. Ghosts of a life they once shared. The old man opened his eyes, sighed wearily and went back inside and finished his drink. Two weeks later. The old man woke up, went downstairs poured himself a coffee and made his way outside into the garden. he looked up at the sky closed his eyes and sniffed at the air. He held his breath for a few seconds opened his eyes again and put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. He had decided, in that moment, to be routinely dead.