About Bill (Novella)

I.1

Bill teems with disregard, but he wears it well. Given the slovenly state of his abode, I could be forgiven for thinking that this man was somehow visually impaired, or else bereft of functioning nostrils. Each cautious whiff grants an odious mix. God, is it socks, or sex? He says he'll light some incense, but I can't convince myself that he should bother. He wrestles the sheer impracticality he has set about himself, cleaving toward the old wooden desk on the opposite side of the room.2

Cigarette-stained fingers amble for the incense holder. He strikes a lighter once. Twice. He coerces the flame to stay alight just long enough for the incense to glow all the way red, and slumps down upon a battered old black speaker. He begins to roll from the butts in his ashtray; a resourceful slob with a head for opportunity. Smoke permeates the old acrid stench: a scant reprieve.3

“Ahh”, he sighs, “Sandalwood”, and bumps the top CD from a stack next to the incense. It falls, clattering onto a half filled ashtray he's ignored for months. Predictably this is shrugged off. The man wreaks of indifference. With my mind on things other than my nose I begin to remember the things which led me here in the first place.