He stood in the doorway, considering his options. Inside, oblivion in the form of seven deadly sins. Outside, a cab ride home.
He pictured his wife, pale and thin on the hospital bed they’d recently delivered to the room that used to be her home office.
He heard his mother-in-law puttering in the kitchen, eradicating orphaned Tupperware lids like she wished she could eradicate the rogue cells in her daughter’s body.
He smelled the cigars his father-in-law consumed incessantly just outside the front door, his last chance to apologize curling into the insultingly blue sky on a wisp of smoke.
He tasted the bitter truth, the looming loss, on the back of his throat, an unswallowed pill that refused to dissolve.
He pushed the door open all the way and stepped inside to the ministrations of the gamblers, the pushers, the freaks.
12/6/17 prompt: “the gamblers, the pushers, the freaks”