August St. Vincent awoke to his blinds slowly parting, allowing golden sunlight to pour into his small efficiency.
August, time to wake up.
"Yea yea. Close blinds."
The blinds reversed their motion and began their journey back across the window. August kicked the sheet off his skinny legs and reached for the floor. The cool stones felt good against his feet. Reaching for his cigarettes, August waited until the blinds were completely shut and his room was dark before lighting up.
"Lights, red."
August stood up and made his way to the bathroom. A small framed photograph of Fidel Castro shaking hands with Ernest Hemmingway hung on his wall next to the doorway to his bathroom. The grin on Fidel's face gave way his love for "Papa." August had read that while in the Sierra Mastra mountains, the young revolutionary had read "For Whom the Bell Tolls," for inspiration.
Music slowly began to build in August's room, slow drones that had no beginning or end. The red lights would slowly turn pink, and then become duller; maroon. August stood in the bathroom for a while with the door shut. His face inches from the mirror.