(Writing Prompt #2)
He slammed the car door shut, let the metallic pang as it ht the dented frame ring and bounce off the garage walls.
Harold liked it; he enjoyed sound. He enjoyed movement, too. Sometimes he’d wake up a few minutes early Thursday mornings, his day off, and catch the 139 Special, just to cross Carson Bridge
As he closed the garage door behind him, he lowered his old Aviator glasses over his deep, grey eyes. He loved movement, just couldn’t be part of it.
Tentatively, he played with his broken umbrella, sprinkling fragile rain drops as he tossed it back and forth between his hands.
Where to go? Where to go? Harold had finished his last shift for the day at the bank slightly under an hour ago, and still had two hours to kill before his watch gave three beeps, indicating the time to take his nightly dose of vitamins.
Slowly, reluctantly even, he took a step back toward his battered car. Today was pizza night at Mike’s Bowling Alley. He knew his co-workers would be there for their usual Friday night game. He reached the rusting key toward the car door, but closed his fist tightly over it before it reached the metal keyhole.
With a swift turn of his heel, Harold scurried up the stairs to his house, locking the door behind him. He was welcomed by an empty answering machine and went to bed at nine. It was his birthday.
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