Cigarette in hand he sat watching the door. He waited on the door. A knock. Perhaps it would just open. Shadows may be seen through the crack at the bottom. He waited until the cigarette burned itself down to the butt, then he lit another and waited some more. The TV was on, but he didn’t know what was playing. Didn’t care. He was waiting and nothing could deter his focus on the lock. Clicks. He wanted to hear the click of a key forcing the tumblers to fall. His coffee was cold, but he didn’t care. It was better the next day anyways. The window was open, but he ignored the breeze and light and sounds of life outside his tiny apartment. The window doesn’t matter, only the door does.