When the bell rang, the eyes of Bouksha clasped. Like a clanking metal gate, the sunny hardwood floor, and inhabitants, and macabre tiny wooden chairs fixed against each wall, and dimly shadowed white celiing fans lazy as the day was summer's, became naught to view. Everyone was pretty and smiling in a content not-smiling sense, most aged and white, but seeming nonetheless. He had seen the just-rang bell, still felt the tone echoing.
Bouksha, on not a few occasions, stayed up throughout the night, pacing, knocking over the lamp, not tidying the rancid apartment for his roommate's clothes, mostly pacing, thinking of laying out another line, curling his muscles fistward, peeking through blinds, laying out another line, snorting back fresh anger again at the punk who'd accosted him at bar close that Saturday night. He met his wife in AA.
She was radiant in the room for bringing him there. 30 minutes later the bell rang again, and with her he stayed still.