The dead man and the fox

The Old Man

The old man walked through his small hallway, the pictures lining the walls throwing shafts of reflected sunlight at odd angles. The mug he held in his greying hand had a single, triangular chip on the opposite side to the one he sipped from. A tendril of steam rose as the exhalation from his nostrils wafted against the boiling liquid.

He opened the front door, and stepped out onto his porch. He had an old-style rocking chair on the left, a joke gift from an old friend whose face was beginning to fade from memory, and it was here that he curled himself before leaning back, and raising the mug to his lips. He sipped absently, watching the warm afternoon drape itself over the land, swarms of midges creating a vanguard for the children playing in the sun.

"That's nice" He murmured to the air, watching the children absently as he tried to tame his tongue with the heat of the tea. It smelled nice, delighting him gently, as did the sun glinting off of the leaves, or the sound of a lawnmower in the distance. His own house was at the end of the street, a squat little thing which kept the contents of his life nestled in the warmth of central heating, and behind a double glazed barrier.

He liked his house, he had shared it with his wife before she passed, and he still felt her close by, cuddled with him as she had been in life. He was at peace with her passing, as he knew he wouldn't be long in joining her, and he looked forward to their future, whatever it held. He did not fear death, he feared the unknown. It was human nature to do so, but he yearned for her touch again, and for that he would walk the void a thousand times over.

The column of trees which separated the domestic from the wild were shaded and cool, and from his chair the man could just make out a fox. He was pretty, and fiery, and tall for a fox. He was sat on his haunches, looking at the man easily, calmly. The man used the tips of his toes to rock himself again, keeping his eyes on the fox as the rim of the mug was lifted to his mouth once more. The afternoon heat, and the haze hanging over the pavement creating a drowsiness the man had not felt previously. The cicadas' lullaby sent him to sleep as they sang in beat with the wooden sound of the rocking chair.

As his cotton eyes closed, he saw the fox padding across the grass verge, and settle just before the step on his porch, curling his tail around himself.