the apathy

a quiet matinee

  A light breeze of not a very warm autumn wind fell through the window into a small room to mercilessly slam and flutter fair, old curtains. In the room, there was a strong smell of old books, which their owner probably had not from the second, not even the third hand — it would be a miracle if it was at least the tenth. Despite the draught, the place could be mistaken for an old, abandoned library.
  The place did not belong to the big ones (nay! calling it tiny would be an exaggeration),  it was small enough that going from the front door to the balcony would take a long-legged person not more than four or five steps. Of course, if we didn't count the need to avoid works of poets from all corners of the world lying on the ground, who probably despised the fate of their novels, so sadly unhallowed by being thrown after on a decades-old brownish carpet. The most important point of the apartment, however, was the already mentioned balcony, which was also its largest room - if, of course, it can be called a room at all. You could enter it from both the kitchen and the living room, which in themselves were also not even a few steps away. On the balcony, there always was this one, wooden, slightly rubbed chair, on which a cushion of burgundy color was placed, tied to it with thin, white strings, so that not even the worst of winds would blow it away. Although, if the proud owner of this pillow did not hide it during a blizzard, it would be a miracle for it to still be there. Next to the chair was a table — not very large, made of mahogany wood, visibly scratched and showing its "age" through numerous grooves, which probably were reminders of the former owner or owners. Currently, this small corner, hanging above the ground, was a place, where the tenant used to frequent too often.
Not dragging the topic of the balcony anymore — the second most important room was doubtlessly the salon. Squalid, with unpainted (probably to the end of time) walls, and only a grayish sofa in the middle, which was the only new thing in the apartment, and an old telly, that only worked after a good hit or two, standing on a wooden cabinet.
  On the couch, covered by a large, beige blanket, lay a lanky man. Dark hair run down his face like a fierce river, slightly covering the ebony eyes, which seemed black without the flash of light, almost like a gloomy night. The man lazily raised his hand to correct the fractious strands, but he lowered it almost as quickly. He more than well knew he should get up already, and yet nothing helped him do it. Only the annoying, loud ringing of the phone made him open slightly his dark circled eyelids and marginally rise to a half-seat. He picked up a device, that has already jammed twice, before moving the other hand to take out the most loved packet of cigarettes from his dark pants.
'Yes?' he asked, his voice echoing in an empty room, where, apart from the books, old, unopened boxes, and trash, that supposedly was a cable TV, there was nothing at all.
The voice on the other side of the call exchanged a few words with him, among other things informing the man that one of his clients would be coming to him promptly and that he should look at least... mediocrely. In his case, however, this was almost impossible.
'Of course, sure,' he murmured, lighting one cigarette with a Marilyn Monroe overprinted lighter and slipping it between his pale lips. He inhaled deeply and swallowed the smoke, resting his face, with at least two weeks old growth, on his bony hand.
  When the woman, because it was the representative of the fair sex that poisoned his late morning, hung up, the dark-eyed man grudgingly rose to his feet. He went to the mirror hanging in the gray bathroom and looked himself in the resigned eyes.
'Vincent Lloyd, private investigator, how may I help you?' he mumbled to his reflection, loudly letting out the air stored in own mouth and gently squinting his dark eyelids. Always the same formula. The fact that he even had to still repeat it to himself every single time... maybe someday he will feel the same passion for this depressing profession so that even introducing himself will not be a hassle anymore. Who knows.