He is grieved by the sound of running water. As a boy, he was bewildered by his mother's stockings, his father's beard. He remembers his 5th grade math teacher and hopes she's still a virgin. Pity the man who can't enjoy the fruits of his labor. Dead grandmothers in rocking chairs litter the ceiling.
Fuzzy darkness coagulates in the corners of the room.
The neighbors remain behind their windowshades out of sheer cowardice, seeking redemption in coffee grinds and egg shells. Win or lose, it makes no difference. With reverence, he places his hands over the flames.