Lawyerly Lies

He saw the picture frame fall from the corner of his eye, the sun glinting off its glassy surface as it spun through the air. He snapped around, but there was nothing he could do as the frame erupted into thousands of glittering shards on the dirty wooden floor. The man fell to his knees among the blanket of sparkling glass and reached into the mess. He removed the single photograph that was once held by the frame and stood once more, dusting his now bloodied knees. As he rose, he slipped the photograph into his tattered jeans. As he made his way across the room, memories of the night before filled his mind, his last hope, a final case. But with the loss of yet another case, no one would ever hire him. Tears began to streak down stubble-frosted cheeks as the man gathered his stuff. He laid a hand on the brass doorknob, then suddenly he turned on his heel, returning to the dresser the frame had fallen from. He tugged at the drawer, meeting resistance of old runners. He slammed a shaking palm onto the top of the dresser and pulled again, harder this time. The drawer remained stuck at first before shooting open with a grinding sound. The man reached inside, retrieving a box of matches. He then grabbed his messenger bag, loading it with court documents from the drawer above. As he made his way across the room once more, he picked up the crumpled suit and tie from the floor and slung it over his arm. With a final look at the small musty apartment, the man left.

A light breeze ruffled the flustered man's hair as he dropped his clothes and papers into a pile. Looking up, he scanned the sprawling skyline littered with skyscrapers and buildings divided by highways thick with traffic. A tired sigh escaped his lips as he pulled the matches from his pocket. He examined the red box, running a thumb over the textured striking patch. He slid open the box and removed a match before striking it against the side of the box. The match flared briefly on the desolate rooftop before being snuffed out by the gentle breeze. The man groaned, crouching beside the clothes and trying again, this time sheltering the match from the wind with his free hand. Once the flame had established itself on the stick of wood, the man held it up to the edge of the papers. Before long, the hungry flames were ferociously consuming the pile of memories. With his job done, the man stepped towards the edge of the building, gazing out at the distant blue smudge that was the sea. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the photography. He smiled at the image. A beautiful woman with hair the colour of flames smiled back. The woman's eye were crinkled with happiness and her hands were held up playfully at the photographer, telling him not to take her photo. The man looked up from the woman, turning his eyes skyward. He stepped onto the concrete barrier that bordered the roof. He swept his arms out like a bird, staring into the heavens.

"I'm coming." He whispered as he fell forward.