He doesn't think he can take it any longer. So he smiles some more, drinks and inhales the putrid smoke from his cigarette.
The man in front of him is alive, almost vibrating with energy, the bright smile and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes charming the small crowd, drawing their attention to his sole figure. He does ridiculous voices as he tells stories, makes people laugh until they choke on their drinks and spill tears.
He takes another drag of his cigarette, never leaving the man with his eyes as a heavy, cold feeling coils down his chest to his stomach. He'd have never imagined to still feel it seven years later. So he watches, letting his blue gaze wander over the lean figure, over every muscle, the stubborn set of his jaw and strong shoulders.
When the red light flickers off, he lights another cigarette. The haze of the nicotine courses through his empty mind, memories flicking by like the pages of an old magazine. Flick, flick, flick. Stop. Stare. Move on. Flick, flick, flick.
He swallows the bitter taste down, polishing it off with a gulp of fine whiskey. It does nothing for him. On the contrary, the booming laugh of the man seems even louder, crawling under his skin and making home there. Flick, flick, flick.
He can almost feel the heat of the July sun and the salty, light air blowing through his hair. Then he's ripped from the memory as suddenly as it was injected into his mind's eye.
The clock strikes two, and he's got a cat to feed at home.
He doesn't know how to feel. There's a huge, gaping hole somewhere where his stomach should be, but his heartbeat is slow and even. His chest isn't constricted by pain as so many times before, his palms aren't sweaty and his eyes don't burn and blurry anymore.
There's just a huge, gaping hole left where his stomach should be. Seven years later, that's all the feeling he's left with.
That, and the constant flick, flick, flick of the bright polaroid-memories in his mind.