A baby handful of people lingered on the quiet street, mostly at the aboki kiosk at the edge smoking cigarettes. Ciroma sat on his balcony that overlooked the street and stared at the moon ringed by deep purple. He had been cooped up for so long writing. Depressing.
Ciroma ranged outside to clear his head and make his mind fly, also for fresh air. From where he sat he could hear the clanking of silver that emanated from inside his house. It was Fird, his wife.
Usually, they talked and ate together at such a time, a night-time ritual they cultivated since they got married, but he had not been in the right mood for a week. Although, Fird understood. After she ate she joined him on the balcony.
A level-headed woman from observation. Ciroma never felt the need to talk whenever Fird was around, times like that she sat at her corner and him at his, they spoke when necessary.
“Miji, sometimes I lay a mat here and fall asleep; I just have to guard my body against mosquitoes,” Fird said, and then kept quiet again.
Another moment passed and soon, Ciroma felt the surreptitious urge to smoke; it helped alleviate the way he felt. He took out his pack but hesitated when he remembered his wife still sat there with him.