Ash
A cigarette, between knobbly old fingers. A tiny thread of red promise slowly curls in its tip.
“Ash?”
The young man stands beside the cafe table. He smells of the rain outside. The old man arches an eyebrow. It grotesquely contorts his lean, wizened face.
“Is your name Ash?” the young man repeats.
The old man draws on his cigarette. Its promise bursts into crimson life, illuminates his mahogany smile. He gestures a welcome. Opposite him, the young man sits…