Mr. Billy

Mr. Billy, as he was known in his circle of senile octogenarians, served his morning coffee in the same blown up, foul tavern, concealed between the concrete blocks of communist architecture. He seemed as he was sipping from a glass of ambrosia, in the gardens of Gilgamesh, that happy and serene he was. His hand shook a little while trying to catch the cheap porcelain handgrip of the cup. If one would have approached Mr. Billy, would easily see the yellow nails from the heavy use of cigarettes, the rugged skin that wrapped in cadaveric creases the various age-specific signs. He had a long, aerodynamic face with a crooked and strapped nose. The coat reached the pavement of the terrace, and the sleeves of the shirt were coming out, letting some worn out buttons appear as if time itself used a sand-paper on them. Mr. Billy seemed to meditate on something profoundly, in his intelligent eyes the echoes of many libraries could be heard. Sometimes he liked to remember Pascal, thinking that he too, being human, is the thinking reed. Suddenly, a soccer ball landed on the table where Mr. B. held his coffee, throwing the cup on the floor and a good portion of the coffee on his black coat.

"Fuck your mother's Gods, you little shit with eyes! " echoed in the apparent silence between the ugly concrete blocks.
Then he got up from the chair, dropping a baritonal fart because of the effort, pulled the bad smelling bag on his forearm, stuffed a raffia sack at his waist belt, and headed for the trash cans aligned in a corner, filled with the welfare of local consumers, resuming his daily activities.

From apartment no. 23, B entry, block no. 3D, 3rd floor, Rachmaninoff's Vsénoshchnoye bdéniye could be heard, making Billy drown into a providential beatitude while searching through the hot garbage on that cold winter morning.