He listened to rain hitting the roof. Two beers deep into a six-pack. Electricity had been cut off for hours. Time spent in the dark. Thunder was heard off in the distance. Strikes of lightening too. The old man opened another beer.

There was a song he hummed. Behind Closed Doors, by Charlie Rich. He even sang the words out loud. ‘Cause no one knows what goes on behind closed doors, he’d sing as car lights briefly flashed by into his trailer. He got up and watched a convoy of trucks from the electrical company pass down Highway 10. He saw their rotating orange lights glowing in the pitch black outside. ‘Cause when she let’s her hair hang down, the old man sang. And she makes me glad that I’m a man, he continued, standing there, swaying back and forth. Don’t mind if I do, he opened another Old Style.

Lightening flashed again. More trucks drove on 10. The old man could hear the water splash from the tires. He laid down on the couch. Remembered when he had a dog that kept him company. How he used to hide under the kitchen table every time a storm came. He’d just lay there and whine. The old man would give him comfort. Rub behind his ears. The old man laughed at the thought of this. Old Blue died a couple of years ago. Every time it stormed he thought about him. He was a good hunting dog too, the old man mumbled. He could track down pheasants like no one’s business.

The gun rack sat over in the corner. An open display of his two shotguns. The old man walked over to em. Opened the case door and reached inside for his gun. Held it up to his shoulder. It felt good. He hadn’t been hunting since the dog died. He opened it up. Thought he saw nothing in the barrel. Pointed it to his head and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on the walls ; soaked into the couch. It stopped raining. The moon glowed over his home.