The light was dim, but you could see the smoke swimming in the room.
His cigarette met the lip of the ashtray,
tap tap
Inhale, exhale.
He rolled the filter between his fingers, studying it.
There was a faint yellow coloring on his hand from all the stress.
His brown hair fell into his green eyes, and he shook it away.
The hanging lamp cast a shadow across his face.
The photograph frames on his desk were face down,
Hidden from view.
His family?
"****," he muttered softly.
He inhaled, exhaled again,
smothered the last few centimeters of smoldering ash.
He rose from his chair, turned, and walked out the door,
Shutting it loudly behind him.
A picture frame fell from the desk.
It hit the tile floor and shattered.