The hot cleansing water feels good against his skin, washing the grime and sweat away from his weary form.
His body aches as the rigors of age set in once more.
An irrefutable truth dawns : There are fewer days behind than ahead.
But still he walks on.
He walks through the darkness of a slumbering city to reach his destination, its neon lights shining upon him, beckoning him to enter.
He walks the halls of this grand hotel, his long arms pushing a tarnished brass cart across it’s worn carpets, a series of squeaks and knocks the only proof of his presence.
Around him travelers sleep, make lust/love (mostly lust), insert poison into their veins, splash fire and ice against the back of their throats, their lives a mixture of fleeting pleasure and pain.
He gives them little more than a moment’s thought as memories of a fallen friend, one of his best friends, return with the power of crashing waves on the shore.
Ronnie walks beside him.
And so he walks on, the thinnest of smiles measurable on his weathered face.