[color=f7941d][h2]Douglas Song[/h2][/color][color=f7941d][h3]Best 8 Motel[/h3][/color]
Tea, fresh tea, brewed in a cheaply made and all too bland white plastic and glass little coffeepot. It was sort of a disappointment, but it was the best there was at the moment; wasn't as though he had a teapot and a stove, let alone fireplace and a steel kettle, but he did at least have boiling water and somewhere to drink it. It also helped that he had the tea itself, considering it was a luxury on a non-existent budget. In fact, all of his situation the lone man at the edge of the tiny bed was thankful for, even if it was ten years out of date and all off-white and equally garish honey oak furniture.

Pouring a cup carefully now, the pair of hands then garnished it with the bag itself, setting it aside after to steep. This was the morning routine, the ritual, tea first before all other things, though the entire "morning" matter was debatable. Rather whatever time he awoke this story played out just as it did in the same room in the same manner. It did not deviate, it did not change. The time of day certainly did, but paying the few bills that existed required a flexible schedule. After all, being paid by relieving petty criminals of their cash? Not all too efficient work. Sure, it was theft all its own, but maybe they would reconsider their decisions, perhaps better than a prison sentence would have offered.

Song did not really think too deep into the matter, instead only looking to the rising steam of the cup and where it sat upon the tabletop. Had his attention been allowed to drift, his mind to wander, he might not have noticed the face of the coffeepot itself being slightly off center. Still, not so much as shifting or interrupting his thought of no thought, a hand of his reached out to straighten little machine out; so subtle an adjustment that returned it to its rightful place.

"There." He said, speaking to no one but himself, nodding in approval.

It at last freed him to do as his work demanded of him, rather his moral compass. It was work itself, perhaps "good" work, perhaps not. What it was at this point was whatever it was, good and bad. However, there was no sense in staring down the steeping tea anymore now that he had resolved the issue and cleared his mind of its inner debates. In short order he dressed himself, having only devoted enough time to wash his face, give a brush of the teeth, and throw a jacket over the familiar white sweatshirt before he returned to the tea and sat down.

Between drinking it, sitting there at the edge of the bed, he emptied his mind. No room for anger, above all other things. That was the difficult one, especially knowing that in short order he would be on and out into the night, with the sole purpose of finding something constructive to do with it. It was tempting to find other means to say the least, the few intrusive thoughts he had, but they were all impulsive to him; Song wasn't just a "boy" anymore who could live that life. At least now he truly understood better, at the very least more lucidly, given the tea had come to replace alcohol. But the last cup had always been the most difficult.

Until he was out on the night, the sound of the door clicking shut behind him...