cinematographer

"It's getting cold out there", I tell the dog.

The wall creaks, the wind moans, and the warmth of the day migrates slowly from the floorboards to the crawl space, and eventually to the outside. It swirls up into the night and mingles with the cold ash from a nearby chimney. I try to seal a few of the cracks with some newspaper, but it makes no difference. The heat wants to leave, so I let it.

The grey light, that earlier dusted the ground from above the endless layer of clouds, is gone. I don't expect it will return anytime soon. An abandoned light bulb sets angled on the floor, there's nothing in the frayed old wires leading to it anyway.

There's a yellowish shadow bending in from a street lamp down the road, it makes the house seem frail and hurt. I'm just another stranger who snuck-in from the cold and sits unnoticed beneath the pealing paint. The old house pays me no mind.

There's a fireplace, but it's dark, dank and void of wood, its dampener hangs from a rusty hinge. To light it would draw more attention than I need. I hear the sound of an old truck, going God knows where, echoing down through the bricks from above. The cold from outside wants to come in, so I let it.

I pull my canvas jacket out, put it on, and sit leaning against a wall. The dog curls up beside me and offers warmth, but has little to spare. The hard floor takes what heat we have and wants more. I can hear the wind blowing again, always the wind.

Another wall pops then groans out of sight somewhere, this time answered by a floor joist. I know it's just the last of the heat being wretched into the night, I let it go.