Serenity.

The day ended like any other; an unremarkable finish to an equally unremarkable effort of work. He packed up his belongings and headed out the door, just barely making the elevator bound for the first floor of his steel and concrete prison. The elevator proceeded to take him towards the freedom below, each floor passed but a moment closer to his home, and to his time.

He walked solemnly to the car, unlocking the doors as he always does from 20 paces out. He opened the passenger door and placed his empty lunchbox on the passenger seat, then rounded the back of the car to find the driver door. He slipped into the driver seat, allowing the supple leather to envelop his body as he started the car for the journey home.

His mind wandered for the entire trip home. Thoughts of times passed and people known dominated each moment as the music in the background soothed his restless spirit. The drive home was routine, just like his life; the same turns, the same scenery, the same time, and the same distance. Tonight’s drive home, though, was long and bittersweet as his mind danced over memories almost in time with the music from the radio.

He pulled into his garage and killed the engine. As routine dictated, he exited his car and went upstairs, dropping his lunchbox in the closet before slipping into his house clothes. His daze was apparent as he moved from room to room through this regular operation, without so much as a thought to anything but the memories of the past that dominated his mind. For as much as the routine was the same, tonight was fundamentally different; a marked sense of tragedy and recollection filled him as he completed the last of his customary activities.

He found himself in the kitchen when he snapped back to reality. With the numbness of the passing moments still fresh on his body, he walked over to the cabinet and removed a shot glass and bottle of Crown Royal. Skillfully, he prepared his drink, mixing a shot of the fine Canadian whiskey with a splash of lime soda and six ice cubes into a stemmed cocktail glass. He then cupped the glass between his index and middle fingers and walked like a rich man out to the patio overlooking the concrete driveway.

It was a warm, humid afternoon. The indirect light of the retreating sun left long, cool shadows amongst the warmth of the light bathed concrete driveway. He listened to the constants of the dying afternoon; the pulse-pulse-pulse of the cicadas and the gentle hum of overworked air conditioning fans. He perched himself on the railing of the patio and rested his body on his elbows as he allowed the warm air to engulf him like a moist towel. His eyes lazily closed as he downed a large gulp from his perfected concoction. He felt the contrast of the cold liquid within him and his mind eased, his pain faded. He took a deep breath and smelled the air’s gentle mix of nature and civilization.

A single touch on the back of his neck opened his eyes. He felt a hand run down his back slowly before making its way back up to his shoulder.

"Tough day?" she asked quietly, almost a whisper.

"Yes."

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

Her hand fell to his waist, and she walked up beside him. She placed her head on his shoulder and looked out into the yard with him. In that moment, they had an entire conversation, and neither of them spoke a word.