Fog Over Chicago

Leonard flicks the ash from his fat cigar into the lake and leans on the gate. He looks out at the 1000 mooring cans and noble vessels that gussy up the Monroe Harbor. When he tokes again, his brow furrows. He’s fighting off any feelings of regret. Days ago, just moments before the Blue Line derailment, the angry bastard in the Cubs jersey had called Leonard’s mother a slut, most likely because Leonard was donning his White Sox cap. That strange fuck knows nothing about my mother, Leonard thought and then he tsked and spit. He didn’t help the guy when he could have. When the train violently squeezed, all Leonard had to do was pull the Cubs fan out of danger’s way, but he had chosen to do nothing. Now that guy is in critical condition at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Serves him right, Leonard thought. He smoked slowly, doing his best to forget his misery, watching his breath merge with the morning fog. At last, Leonard tossed the cigar to the ground and mashed it under his foot. Now it was time to return to the hospital’s ICU where his mother lies unconscious in a bed next to the stranger who had called her a slut.