The slithery homely hiss of knife against sharpener, the lingering smell of onions frying in hot fat, as he makes dinner. Night falling on the city, night creeping up the walls of his building, night peeking in through his windows.
How long has it been since he saw the stars? Every night a red sky, washed clean, changeable moon rolling through an unmarked field. Meat the same internal red as the sky, warm on the outside and pleasantly cool in the center.
He keeps the TV on for the company, a low rumble of voices, clamor, sirens, warnings. Fires are burning in the poor parts of town. He can trace the red trail of the engines draw near the fire, then fall back, letting the fires spread.
It’s been hot lately, so unbearably hot.