Leftovers
You could hear the dry biscuits being chomped by weary old teeth. Without uttering a word, the chomping teeth tried to form a smile. One hand held onto the hard, artificially sweetened, dry, gnawed biscuit. Crumbs breaking off to the asynchronous rattling of the bus window. The biscuit stole all the moisture form the tongue, throat, lips. It seemed that the entire wrinkled visage had shrinked in that moment, no tear flowed. Eyes, invisible through first the thick foggy glasses, and then the unclean double window stared, still trying to smile. An empty hand, propped by pinocchio joints rose up, fingers outstretched, rocking like a grandfather clock. As the bus lurched forward, the biscuit fell. The teeth stopped. He would savour the last taste of Home as he left for the old-age house.