I’m done.

You’re done?

Yeah.

How do you know?

I feel it. This life is coming to an end.

Sure of that?

Yes. I believe so.

OK. What do you want?

Bottle of whiskey. A pack of smokes. 

Then no more? 

Nope. I’m done. 

I get it.

Tired. Sick of watching the news. It’s all moving so fast. One day, you’re twenty-five, and next, you’re approaching sixty. I never had time.

For what?

To catch up. Always lagged behind. 

I see.

My bones hurt. I’m weak. Can’t  breathe. Where’s my Marlboros?

Here.

Light one for me.

He lit his friend’s cigarette. Stood over him. Looked outside. A blackbird sat on the window frame, staring in. He then flapped his wings and flew away.