Dull and Boring Row Houses

On a very dull, very quiet street in a panoply of cities
There was a house
It was made of rough red bricks, so often repeated that they were no longer abrasive
Inside this house existed a variety of muted colors and people

One of the subdued parties was created by the other
Who caused (and who suffered) the desaturation is inconsequential

Inside of this archetype of westernized life lived a man
A very dull, very quiet man
A man whose life and livelihood had long depended on his being a creature of habit
This man lived in his coldframe, an enclave in the bricks of a house.

He called this frigid place his study
The ingress was always locked, despite the lack of a deadbolt or chain

A muted and dusty wife wandered vacantly outside of some walls and inside of others.
She was permitted into his home only when he wasn't there to witness an end it's solitude
For all his isolation, he still couldn't clean the ashtray

Rooms are imprinted with a character over the eons of a persons imprisonment in them
Tears, tobacco smoke, dust, and very strong liquor were the animus of his tower

One day, he preformed his tasks as he had countless times before
Nothing at all seemed amiss
Another dull and quiet day, warranting another retreat into his volume lined rabbit hole.
As he sat in the worn recliner, a hammer fell, triggering a finality to his solace

The explosion from the primer was audible in his ear, an omen of a future closing in like a brakeless locomotive

When it crashed, his wife made no comment. She went to bed alone as she had for decades
Her rag wielding hand touched the doorknob, and she smelled something not unlike cordite
She opening the door calmly, looked down, and began to clean.