There must’ve been 50 pines on that cactus.
He didn’t count.
The lines attached to the blurred drawing were insurmountable in quality and quantity.
The picture absorbed his mind. The indistinguishable background noise was difficult to focus on.
“Mankind needs to plant that tree.”
“Oh, oh, oh, we got animals. And we spent 50 grand.”
The cactus stood still. As did everything on the paper.
He blinked. The picture faded from eye sight as he returned the real world.
The three of them sat round the table. A dull blue shade, made of wood, against the wall. He faced the painting, his companions either side, intently discussing the futility of society.
In the background, Patsy Cline sang of men in courtrooms & the morality of romantic existence.
The world went on. The smoke blew under his nose. The rolled tobacco doing the rounds. That beautiful, burning odour. The heat. The strong odour of charcoal. That intoxicating aroma. People have been hooked for centuries. It’s hardly a surprise.
Life was good.