Poor Richard's Bitter Heart

Keen to move on from his bitter days, Poor Richard sits on the window ledge with a cigarette, a small wire bowl of sunflower seeds, and a glass of cold white wine. The evening is unique; an orange glitter flooding across the skyline as the purple clouds seep in from the sides, melting all together with a soft sweep of light blue and merging white flowing down toward the horizon like a cold wave of the sea about to break. Poor Richard, who will one day reach a stage in life where he will be almost in awe of his past, almost in an epiphany, he will realise this moment would be the downfall of his born days, looks away from the folding evening and drops his eyes to the road in front of him. There is a man in an orange jacket the other side of the road, a small, wide man, known to all who dare speak of him as ‘Diving Master Glitter’, though he prefers to refer to himself (the very few times that he does talk to anyone) as ‘Mr. Dive’. The road is largely empty, at this time of night in late summer not much ever sees these quiet streets, if it were not for the near luminous red shine of the Bright family’s house peering over the village from the other side of the road like an elated hawk, the village would be as good as black and white. Coming in from Poor Richard’s left is a dark figure, on his side of the road, appearing to be moving toward him. The figure is tall and curvy. Wavy dark hair begins to emerge. An erected collar becomes clear, slightly drooping on one side at the chin. Dark, beautiful skin and bright, wide eyes distinguish themselves as the figure becomes clearer. Poor Richard puts his cigarette out on the concrete floor beneath him; he puts the glass of wine to his mouth, he feels a chill run through his fingers as the cold glass hits the cold night surrounding, he enjoys the shiver as he rubs his eyes and sighs.

‘Lisa?’ Poor Richard’s voice is soft and wary.
The figure stops and appears to lean in towards the window-ledge, although she is almost fifteen feet away. The figure is seemingly disappearing in the darkness as she bares her motionlessness. The night feels cold as the sun hits the taller buildings on the horizon. Diving Master Glitter is standing still on the other side of the road with a cigarette in his hands and the look he commonly portrays likely to be the reason for his given name where he stares blindly at a single object on one’s body, and his stare and full attention has been known to remain for longer than one could have the patience to record. Poor Richard is sitting without a twitch on the window ledge as he peers unknowingly, somewhat wishfully, into the fading outline of the inert figure. All is silent on the eastern front of the road as blackness drenches all that was visible, and the night’s pure bitterness freezes everything that moved, and everything is still.
All until a small, tired voice catches the waves in the wind and floats across the frozen air, baring few wishful words, ‘Poor Richard?’.