It's a glorious thing, to be able to sit on your own porch, smoking calmly, watching the sun set and knowing you have nothing better to do than sitting on your own porch, smoking calmly, watching the sun set.
"Not sure." Smoke curling upwards, dissolving.
Silence.
As the glowing orange ball melts into the horizon and colours the world in hues of yellow and red, it's almost as if you're watching the end of the world. The air is completely still, like just before a storm.
"I guess I want what everyone else wants." A downwards glance.
"What does everyone else want?"
"I don't know."
Silence is greatly underrated. The sound of silence, true silence, can only be heard if you listen closely. It's as fragile and elusive as the murmurs of cracking ice, the whispers of the breeze as it runs its course through the grass; like the fading melody of a solitary cricket.
"A family. Kids. A nice house." A rain of ashes on the wooden floorboards.
"What about freedom?"
"Freedom with responsibility, sure."
"It's the only kind."
They always say smoking is bad for you. Obviously "they" have never known the soothing presence of a cigarette in your hand, the feel of your lungs filling with smoke and exhaling it in a billowing cloud, just like a soul leaving your body.
"I'd like to think I'm responsible." Black boots shifting with a creak.
"You'd like to think so."
"How about you?"
"What?"
"What do you want out of life?"
The world really is a beautiful place. You wouldn't think so, sometimes, when reading the paper or watching the news on your old black and white television set. But it is. The air is clear, the landscape wide open, and the wind brings with it a promise of rain.
"I've been lucky." Strands of hair brushing against a stubbled cheek.
"How so?"
"I want nothing more of life."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
Smoke curling upwards, dissolving.
The sun is setting, and the air is growing dark. The clouds are marching in, and for a lingering moment, there is a whiff of sea on the breeze, before the skies open. Heavy drops are thundering against the tin roof, beating it with a long-built up rage.
They remain sitting.