Small Piece of Something

Shouting At Flowers There's this generic guy who lives on the ninth floor of a generic apartment building. He doesn't have a whole lot of friends and spends a lot of time alone. Sometimes he goes out to places by himself and he's always the first to leave because he figures if he has to be lonely, why be lonely around other people. So he goes home and sits in his chair.

One day he wakes up and takes a stroll out onto his balcony, as per his usual morning routine. Routines are very important to these kinds of people, you see, it gives them something to do and look forward to. There's something different about the balcony on this fine September morning, however.

It wasn't that there was a woman sitting in his balcony lawnchair. Or that he had no idea how she got there. Or that said woman was clearly not breathing and hadn't been for quite some time. What really got to him was that it was different. It wasn't routine. He choked back his shock and muttered something. Not thinking that she heard him, he repeated it louder. She didn't seem to be interested so he went back inside to think this over. Turning on the television to the local morning news show, he went to the kitchen to fix some toast and orange juice. Routine.