How do you do,
Seymour Taft devoured the last bites of his cobb salad and rushed home on his dented, rusting Schwinn 10-speed. The rear wheel wobbled as it spun, attempting to wrest itself free. It was restrained only by Seymour's weight. Drops of sweat evaporated from his exposed arms, regulating his body temperature. He had rolled his sleeves to mitigate the heat.
When he arrived, he clattered the bike haphazardly onto his patio. The wheel squeaked three more rotations, slowed, and stopped. Seymour wiped the sweat backwards off his balding head with his right hand, and down his face with his left. Simultaneously, he entered his apartment, shouldering the screen and the unlocked door aside. A car backfired as it pushed along the street. Dogs, hearing this, barked.
Seymour pulled a head of lettuce from his fridge and washed its leaves delicately under the tap. He selected one leaf, removed it with a wrenching of his wrist, and returned the lettuce to its shelf in the fridge. The beads of moisture remaining from the rinse glistened in the incandescent glow as the door closed, and the light went out. The lettuce was again in the dark.
The lettuce leaf, placed on the countertop, stayed pristine, by all observable measures, for twelve minutes and forty-three seconds. This was a new record, by only a slim margin.
Seymour disposed of the leaf, and took three steps to his large recliner. He cascaded down, one articulate joint after another, and settled. Startled, a billow of dust escaped from the cushions, and dissipated into the ambient detritus that swarmed above Seymour's recumbency. He held his head with his right hand, and stared at the far corner of his room. He remained in this position for hours. Finally, sleep came to him.
Good night.
walter