Bare

Heating was a luxury. Damp was creeping through the wallpaper in places, but sacrifices must be made. A mattress, a table and a solitary chair break the monotony of a near empty room. Condensation runs down the flex of the single 40 watt bulb that hangs at its centre, its filament glowing faintly against newspaper covered windows. A stooped figure shuffled mechanically around the room. He wears a collection of holes he calls a cardigan. Trousers shiny with grime. Bare feet, streaked with filth, threadbare slippers dragged rasping over unvarnished floorboards. A click announced that the meter was empty and the single bulb and only source of heat winked off.

Today was a special day. Today he would make himself presentable; today the sacrifice would be worth it. He could ill afford such material indulgences that others thought necessary such as heating, television, soap, hot water or wasteful toilet paper. These things were a rare luxury these days.

His special visitor was coming, his only visitor these days when money allowed. He had to look his best, he thought. He stood in front of a shard of broken mirror propped up on the mantelpiece among the scant debris that constituted his life: faded pictures in broken frames, thick with dust and of people he could no longer recall. He squinted into the shard, arranging his meagre follicles to cover a pallid scalp before cleaning his remaining teeth with the sleeve of his cardigan. His tarnished reflection grinned back gums clutching occasional black posts, his face a crumple of deep lines, cuts and tufts of hair sprouted unchecked and unseen, despite his attempts at shaving.

Fortunately his guest never complained about his appearance, soon their fragrance and colour would split the gloom and give him the fleeting pleasure of their company. Soon he would be gathering them up in his arms and inhaling their sweetness. He did not have to wait long as the buzzer announced their arrival, followed by a knock at the door. Radiant and tied in a tight bow, the florist recoiled in disgust as they handed him a large bunch of flowers. Cradling the flowers in his arms for a moment, mesmerised, he slowly brought his face close to the blooms to inhale deeply. He pushed a jar of coins towards the florist with his foot, but she had already turned to leave, 'you've forgotten your money' he croaked, but she just mumbled something unheard from her covered nose and mouth and she was gone.

He carefully carried the flowers to the bare wooden table in the centre of the room, arranging each stem in a chipped vase, before calmly sitting. His eyes fixed on the source of adoration. He no longer felt the cold, or the hunger as the day faded and darkness reduced his love to a grey silhouette. Sacrifice is what makes perfection sweeter, he thought, as he waited for dawn and love's return.