Thomas’s decrepit screen sat on the round table the size of a cartwheel, which made out a slab of unevenly cut corners. The television was like an unwelcome mirror. It is that dark grey in front with false wooden panelling around the sides and the rear projecting outward toward the curb. The cord dangles into the gutter like some discarded lies. At any other time of year it would be soaked and mud splattered already, but the only damage so far is the light August dust that seemed to settle on anything that stays still for more than a few moments. On the corner of the television, there is a photograph of his wife, Charlotte. Her face reads like a road map of time, and every wrinkle has a story of it’s own therefore lies a memory within it.
