It's in his ear.
We walks fast, he trips, he gets up and walks on without brushing off the leaves and dirt and oily street-dust. He ignores the old lady calling out to ask if he's all right. He ignores the funny looks from children and laughter from teenagers.
It's in his ear. It's in his ear.
He fumbles with his keys and unlocks the front door on the third try. He leaves them in the door when he closes it. He goes to the kitchen and grabs the carving knife.
It's in his ear. It's in his goddamn ear.