Neon

“Deep in his cups at the faded back of a red neon lit bar, a man set about devising an equation to solve humanity’s problems.” A young man said as he scribbled the words in a Fox print notebook. The lines held little truth, but much reassurance as the young man struggled to sort out how he got within touching distance of thirty years old and still lived at home. 

“Unfortunately for both the man and humanity, his attention slipped once Angelica Hughes walked through the front door.” 

“Shoot,” he slashed through the lines. “Nobody is going to like that.” 

His right hand covered in ink kept smearing the upper part of his pages. It wouldn’t be until years later that he would realize this was because he wrote like a left hander, subconsciously copying his father. And not the only copy either.