Grind

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Grind

The squeal of the hinge was his only welcome home. A few pictures hung in the dingy hallway, past trips and adventures, the smiling faces of friends. A greeting from what felt like another life. He set the camera down onto the shelf by the door and walked away.

The yellow fluorescent light buzzed noisily, oddly in sync with the hum of his electric razor. The blades were dull and seemed to pull the whiskers rather than trim them. But with no money for new metal, he had to make due—keeping up a semblance of professionalism as he could. His skin slightly red, he unhappily glanced at an empty bottle of aftershave before dipping his face into cold water.

Moving along his routine path, he made his way towards his best and only friend. The couch. It had some stuffing poking out from it's arms, but the cushions were still plump, and it always welcomed him to join it. Making himself comfortable on the middle cushion, he sunk into the pillows slowly and sighed. The television was soon triumphantly shouting the theme song to his favorite shows as he drifted slowly off to sleep, ready to repeat the grind the next day.

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