No. 7

It's 6:54 a.m. and he's in the kitchen sitting indian style on the counter, drinking coffee in long hot sips and staring, just staring out the window. He feels movement in his guts. A shit's coming on, but he'll sit here while longer. No sense in rushing things. The girl from 120 leaves her apartment, hair still wet. The guy next door sneezes in three loud bursts. The train's rolling by. The day is on and there's nothing much he can do.