Out of reach

All this seemed years ago to Colin, and indeed it was. His mind was in such turmoil, he couldn’t work out how many. Was it five or fifteen? Longer? Whatever had happened in the past had brought him here, to Dorchester and to the present. He was happy enough with a smoke and a cup of tea, out on the back porch. He threw the butt into a bucket of rainwater; it hit with a fizz, swallowed the last mouthful of tea and went into the kitchen. He took the dirty cup and a couple of soiled plates from the table; put the cup in the sink but dropped the plates with a clatter. He looked up and saw his reflection in the window. He began to cry.

He was on his own. No number of cigarettes, cigars or cups of tea could make him happy. There was only one thing that could make him happy and that was completely out of reach.