dancharles

Michael Winter sat alone at the table in his gloomy apartment. Loose tie, shirt sleeves rolled up he stared at his bowl of watery soup. One hand propped up his weary head, strands of hair sprouted between his fingers. The other slowly shovelled soup into his mouth, pausing frequently for yawns. The T.V provided the only light in the room, a man raved on the nightly news. The torrential rain outsi…