Eldeaux Vignette

The night buried itself further as the moon disappeared, leaving the glow of the city as the light which helped Martín peer through the fog. Sitting along the furthest edge of the longest dock at the harbor, the air rose from beyond the bay and found its way directly to his spine, which he countered with a sip of hooch from a recycled tin bottle.

The bottle was riddled with dents and imprints from a few odd months of frequent use. But it still did his job. Especially in keeping him warm. His clothes -- a singed and torn denim jacket, with no undershirt, and a pair of cotton trousers could do something of the sort, if he only was anywhere else in the city.

But he knew that. That's why he was there. The elements comforted him. His face was both bluish and flushed and his nose frozen. But he felt all those things, something his nervous system needed practice in doing. The risk of it all was agreeable in his eyes too. The dock was a secure, city-owned parcel of land that was not open for anyone who wasn't actively on the clock.

The fact that he sat there with bootlegged ‘shine in hand and a pack of belongings only made things worse in a city that criticized vagrancy. The latter alone would land him 9 months in the slots for his 3rd offense. But still, he found himself agreeable.

The slots were similar to his boyhood tenement, just sans gunshots, plus security.

Yet also similar was the fact that there were ways to get out. His main idea was to follow in suit of his ma -- draw a knife on an officer, get shot, die. 

Death was his hyperfixation of the day, yet so was life. He loved and feared both. And the cold air and rising fog reminded him exactly of what intrigued Martín  of both.

He slang his shoulder hag to his lap and dug through it, sorting through empty cartons of liquor to find an urn.

His father's ashes.

Closed half-heartedly with an unsealed top.

An unsealed top that Martín lifted from, raising the urn into the air, before it dropped -- with the ashes spilling. His father's remains covered his shoes, shirt, pants, and coated the inside of the bag. He shook his head and dusted off his pants, with little emotion on his face.

He sat certainly still for a moment before kicking his feet over the dock, and swung his ashen shoes off into the harbor. Then, he shook the entirety of his bag out, with an increasing grimace on his face. To soften it, he downed the rest of his hooch, and threw the old tin bottle into the water 

He half-heartedly poured the urn into the harbor too, before grabbing his final bottle of ‘shine in his pocket and pouring that into the urn until it overflowed into the sea.

The shine was his father's recipe .

He sat for a moment, watching the foamy crests poke through the fog as he timed his breath with the waves. Then, he saw a ship spinning close to the dock, one with a familiar hull. So, Martín stood and walked down the long dock. Morning would find him in some hours, and though he hated to meet her, she would also bring Martin's newborn niece. And after that moment of bliss, he'd decide to reconsider.