Most men had some kind of sorry love affair with their equipment; Spence was not so attached to his that he wasn’t willing to put it inside of some very questionable receptacles.

Work. Eat. Sleep. Screw. Repeat.

He lay back down on his back and began to contribute his own layer of grime to the ceiling as he fired up a smoke. He played with his lighter, flicking it on and off, on and off. The click of the hinged Zippo sharply cracked against the dead air in the room. His girlfriend long gone, the place still stank like bad sex, stale cigarettes and Binaca.

The flame off the Zippo flickered against the greenish-gray TV. He tried not to notice his own image as it flicked off the set into his retina in time with his opening and closing of the lighter. The butane was running low and the flame receded to the quick, barely a blue orb capped with a slight yellow crown.